THE 

HONEY  BEE 

BY  SAMUEL  MERWIN 


THE  HONEY  BEE 


OF  CALIF.  LIBBARY,  LOS  AHGELEST 


She  was  conscious  of  intense  solitude" 


THE  HONEY  BEE 

A  Novel 

BY 
SAMUEL  MERWIN 

AUTHOR  OF 
ANTHONY  THE  ABSOLUTE,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

R.  M.   CROSBY 


N  E  W  |Y  O  R  K 

GROSSET   &    DUN  LAP 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1915 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEB  PAGE 

I  Hilda  Wilson  Makes  the  Acquaintance  of  Adele 
Rainey,  of  Harper  and  Rainey;  and  Also  of 
One  Blink  Moran,  Whom  You  Would  Hardly 
Expect  to  be  Dignified I 

II    She  Attends  a  Novel  Entertainment;  Wearing, 

However,  the  Wrong  Clothes     ....       20 

III  Two   Persons   of   Distinct   Public   Importance, 

With  a  Moment's  Idle  Speculation  as  to 
Which  Might  Prove  the  Better  Man,  Should 
They  Meet  in  a  Business  Way  ....  37 

IV  In    Which    It    Appears    That    Dame    Nature, 

Prompted  by  Her  Traditional  Abhorrence  of 
a  Vacuum,  Has  Already  Acted  in  the  Matter 
of  Hilda 46 

V    Blink  Moran  on  Diet  and  the  Human  Machine, 

Also  on  the  Honey  Bee.  And  a  Faint  Analogy      55 

VI    On  Certain  Difficulties  in  the  Way  of  Being 

Natural  and  Truthful  at  the  Same  Time      .      73 

VII  Hilda  Feels  That  She  Has  Disposed  of  Stanley 
Aitcheson.  Moran  Talks  With  the  Managers 
of  a  Person  of  Importance.  And  Will  Harper 
Goes  to  Budapest  .......  82 

VIII    Man   Through    a   Woman's   Eyes.     And   How 

Even  Bitterness  May  Have  Its  Uses         .       .       94 

IX  Hilda  Wishes  Adele  Would  Keep  Her  Hands 
Off.  And  is  Surprised  to  Hear  Her  Name 
Spoken  „ 106 

X  Hilda  at  Last  Has  a  Glimpse  of  the  Real  Mo- 
ran; and  What  Follows  so  Moves  Her  That 
She  Thinks  She  Will  Give  Adele  Something 
to  Wear  -  115 


2131240 


CONTENTS— Continued 


CHAPTEB 


PAGE 


XI    Hilda  Receives  a  Letter,  Which  She  Will  Open 

in  a  Few  Minutes .     133 

XII  In  Which  Hilda  Perceives,  Just  Ahead,  the 
Crossroads  of  Life,  and  Speculates  Rather 
Deeply.  Also  There  Is  a  Small  Conflict  in 
Her  Room,  Won,  as  It  Happens,  by  Adele  .  149 

XIII    Disturbing  News,   Tempered  by  the  Pleasant 

Sight  of  Ed  Johnson 161 


XIV    More   Disturbing   News;    and   Still   More. 
Prodigal  Returns,  Smoking  Cigarettes    . 


182 


XV  The  Returned  Prodigal,  Seeking  Something  in 
the  Nature  of  a  Fatted  Calf,  Meets  With  an 
Experience  That  Would  be  Amusing  Were  It 
Not  so  Serious  ....  .  .  .  195 

XVI  In  Which  Ed  Johnson  Tries  to  Put  Over  a  Dif- 
ficult Proposition,  and  Fails.  The  Return  of 
a  Person  of  Importance;  a  Pressure  of 
Hands;  and  the  White  Lights  Out  by  the 
Porte  Maillot  .  .  ,:  ..  .  .  «  .  210 

XVII  In  Which  the  Two  Persons  of  Importance 
Finally  Do  Meet  in  a  Business  Way;  With 
Impressions  of  a  Little  World  That  Is,  to  Put 
It  Mildly,  Rather  Bizarre  .  .  «  *  v  224 

XVIII    Twenty  Rounds — To  a  Decision     .       .• " '"•*      .     239 

XIX  In  Which  Hilda  and  Blink  Conclude  That  It 
Has  Been  a  Good  Deal  of  an  Evening,  Taking 
It  By  and  Large .263 

XX  Hilda,  in  Her  Turn,  Tries  to  Put  Over  a  Dif- 
ficult Proposition;  and  Is  More  Successful 
Than  Ed  Johnson  Was  276 


CONTENTS— Continued 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXI    In  Which  News  Is  Expected,  and  Comes;  but 

From  an  Unexpected  Quarter     ....     289 

XXII  The  Baby's  Bath  is  First  Delayed,  Then  Inter- 
rupted for  a  Moment,  by  Events  in  Which 
That  Small  Person  Feels  No  Immediate  In- 
terest   303 

XXIII  In  Which  Hilda  Exhibits  Her  Judgment  and 

Capacity;  but  Finds  It  Distinctly  Easier  to 
Act  Than  to  Think 31& 

XXIV  Hilda  Comes  to  a  Bridge,  and  Crosses  It     .       .     33& 

XXV  How  a  Man  and  a  Woman  Meet  After  Many 
Years,  and  Manage  to  Talk  Only  of  Trunks 
and  Taxis  and  Chicken  and  Salad  .  .  .  344 

XXVI  Hilda  at  Last  Feels  That  She  Is  Herself; 
Plights  Her  Word;  and  Falls  Asleep  With 
Sobering  Thoughts 357 

XXVII    The  Day  That  Was  Perfect;  and  Its  Ending     .     373 

XXVIII  How  Letters  Came,  and  Made  It  Plain  That  the 
Life  One  Has  Lived  Follows  One  Like  a 
Shadow.  Also  How  Hilda  Taps  at  a  Door; 
and  How  She  Comes  to  Sit  by  the  Window, 
Reading,  While  a  Man  Smiles  in  His  Sleep  .  388 

XXIX  How  a  Man  Smiles  Again,  and  Not  in  His 
Sleep  This  Time.  With  a  Glimpse  of  the 
Happiness  That  Lies  Beyond  Tears  .  .  404 

XXX  By  an  Open  Window  at  Night;  Life  in  Its  Ebb 
and  Flow;  a  Lock  of  Hair;  Blink  Makes  a 
Trip  to  France;  and  Hilda,  a  Little  Later, 
Writes  Home :..  .  426 

XXXI    In  Which  Hilda  Opens  a  Door  on  Fate       .       .    444 


THE  HONEY  BEE 


THE  HONEY  BEE 


HILDA  WILSON  MAKES  THE  ACQUAINTANCE  OP  ADELE  EAINET, 
OF  HARPER  AND  RAINEY ;  AND  ALSO  OF  ONE  BLINK  MOEAN, 
WHOM  YOU  WOULD  HARDLY  EXPECT  TO  BE  DIGNIFIED 

ONCE  in  the  taxi,  she  took  the  little  oval  mirror  from 
her  wrist-bag  and  studied  the  grayish,  faintly  wrin- 
kled half  moons  under  her  eyes. 

"'Color's  off,  too,"  she  mused.  "It's  all  wrong,  Hilda 
Wilson.  You're  not  there !  You  certainly  are  not  there !" 

The  taxi  whirled  into  the  Boulevard  Bonne  Nouvelle  and 
darted  westward,  twisting  and  skidding  with  that  noncha- 
lant disregard  of  all  living  things  that  contributes  in  no 
small  measure  to  the  desperate  gaiety  of  Paris  streets ;  but 
Miss  Wilson  gave  not  a  thought  to  the  spectacle.  The  thou- 
sands of  masculine  pedestrians,  with  their  sedulously  kept 
beards,  their  flapping  trousers,  and  (here  and  there)  their 
monocles,  moved  slowly  along  the  sidewalks  under  the  bare 
trees  and  studied  the  thousands  of  women  with  the  casual 
boldness  of  ancient  habit;  but  for  Miss  Wilson  they  did 
not  exist.  The  cafe  waiters,  blue  and  cold  in  their  indoor 
garments  and  white  aprons,  hovered  among  the  outdoor  ta- 

1 


8  THE   HONEY  BEE 

bles,  keeping  close  to  the  charcoal  braziers  and  the  patches 
of  winter  sunlight ;  the  cinemas  blazed  their  white  fronts ; 
the  curb  kiosks  flared  their  provocative  jumble  of  advertise- 
ments; a  battalion  of  cuirassiers  rode  by,  helmet  plumes 
waving  and  breastplates  glinting ;  a  motor-bus  collided  with 
the  tricycle  of  an  epicerie  boy,  and  blocked  all  traffic  for 
nearly  a  minute :  Miss  "Wilson  was  aware  only  of  that  tired 
face. 

She  locked  her  fingers  tightly  in  her  lap.  Then,  suddenly 
aware  that  her  nerves  were  absurdly  tense,  she  unclasped 
her  hands  and  let  them  drop  by  her  sides. 

"To  think/'  she  said  aloud,  in  the  crisp  slang  of  the  store 
that  was  always  amusing  and  usually  expressive,  "that  that 
harmless  old  rubber  stamp  could" — she  hesitated,  then 
came  down,  with  a  self-conscious  little  grimace,  on  the 
phrase — "could  get  my  goat  like  that !" 

During  eight  consecutive  winters  and  eight  consecutive 
summers  Hilda  Wilson  had  spent  a  fortnight  to  three  weeks 
at  Paris,  buying  model  gowns,  wraps,  suits  and  blouses. 
Naturally  her  business  headquarters  .had  always  been  with 
Armandeville  et  Cie.,  in  the  Eue  d'Hauteville,  for  these 
gentlemen  were  the  traditional  Paris  commissionnaires  for 
the  Hartman  store.  Naturally,  too,  old  M.  Armandeville 
himself,  during  these  four  to  six  weeks  of  eight  consecutive 
years  had  tried  elaborately  and,  at  times,  rather  laboriously 
to  introduce  a  personal  note  into  their  business  relation- 
ship. Beyond  an  instinctive  repugnance  to  the  awkward 
fact  that  men  will  persist  in  making  themselves — well,  dif- 
ficult, at  times,  she  had  never  before  given  him  more  than 
a  passing  thought.  Indeed  she  had  considered  him,  be- 
cause of  his  Gallic  elaborateness,  rather  easier  to  forestall 
than  the  more  reticent,  subtler  men  of  America. 

But  now    ,    .    .  !     She  had  certainly  upset  things. 


THE   HONEY   BEE  3 

And  she  was  running  away.  After  what  she  had  said  it  was 
really  impossible  to  stay  on  in  that  office.  For  the  rest  of 
the  afternoon,  anyway. 

A  picture  of  the  old  gentleman's  face  came  to  her  mind's 
eye — sitting  there,  so  frankly  bewildered,  so  ingenuously 
grieved,  while  she  stood  over  him,  flushed  and  angry,  re- 
minding him  of  his  family  as  well  as  of  the  advantage  he 
was  taking  of  herself.  She  might  quite  as  well  have  talked 
the  ethical  system  of  the  Choctaws.  She  wondered,  with  an 
oddly  cold  detachment  of  mind,  what  had  become  of  her 
poise  and  her  humor.  Her  vigor  was  still  evident.  No 
doubt  about  that.  But  she  had  lost  control  of  it  at  last, 
after  all  the  annoying  little  warnings  of  the  last  year  or 
so  that  just  this  thing  might  some  day  happen.  This  was 
the  day,  it  appeared. 

The  taxi  crossed  the  Place  de  1'Opera  and  turned  to  the 
right  along  the  wide  Rue  Auber.  At  the  next  corner  it 
swung  in  to  the  curb  before  the  offices  of  the  American  Ex- 
press Company — that  familiar  "11  Rue  Scribe"  through 
which,  during  a  long  generation,  have  drifted  so  many 
thousands  of  wandering  Americans. 

She  went  directly  up  the  stairs  to  the  big  mail  room; 
called  for  her  letters  at  the  "M  to  Z"  window ;  then  dropped 
into  the  nearest  unoccupied  chair.  She  simply  did  not  see, 
with  any  inner  eye,  the  half  a  hundred  other  persons  scat- 
tered about  at  the  two-sided  writing  tables  and  in  the  easy 
chairs  by  the  windows ;  indeed  she  was  only  dimly  conscious 
of  the  man  opposite  when  she  had  seated  herself. 

Miss  Wilson  drew  off  her  gloves,  and  went  at  her  letters. 

One,  addressed  in  her  mother's  hand  and  with  the  famil- 
iar Indiana  postmark,  she  put  in  her  bag  for  later  attention. 
Another,  also  addressed  in  longhand,  she  pursed  her  lips 
ever;  then  laid  it  aside.  The  business  letters  claimed  her 


4  THE   HONEY   BEE 

attention  first.  She  ran  through  the  little  heap  of  envelopes 
with  quick  eyes  and  nimble  fingers. 

Then  she  paused,  frowned  slightly,  and  for  a  moment 
held  her  hand  against  the  back  of  her  head ;  then  brought  it 
down  to  her  chest,  pressed  it  there,  and  drew  a  long  breath. 
She  had  expended  a  good  deal  of  emotional  energy  in  that 
foolish  little  scene  with  M.  Armandeville.  She  realized  this 
now.  And  she  knew  that  it  was  energy  wasted. 

Her  eyes  rested  on  the  man  across  the  table.  He  looked 
up,  too.  He  had  a  square  strong  face,  with  heavy  bunches 
of  muscle  on  each  jaw  and  rather  high  cheek-bones.  His 
brown  hair  came  down  over  his  forehead  in  a  rebellious 
thatch.  There  was  a  slight  twist  in  his  nose,  as  if  it  had 
been  broken.  The  eyes  were  large,  and  of  a  steady  blue, 
unusually  attractive  eyes;  but  one  eyelid  had  been  cut  at 
some  time,  precisely  in  the  middle,  and  stitched  so  that  it 
was  now  drawn  up  in  a  permanent  and  faintly  grotesque 
suggestion  of  a  Gothic  arch.  A  curious  face  and  head ;  but 
solid  and  strong.  Made  you  wonder  a  little  what  he  could 
be.  He  was  young,  certainly  not  much  over  thirty,  if  that. 
His  blue  serge  suit  had  been  made  by  a  good  tailor — an 
English  tailor,  she  thought.  Over  a  chair  beside  him  lay  a 
long  overcoat  of  broadcloth  heavily  lined  with  sable. 

The  top  letter  was  from  Joe  Hemstead,  typed  under  the 
familiar  head  of  the  Hartman  store  (of  recent  years  she  had 
made  a  point  of  having  her  personal  mail  sent  here  and  not 
to  M.  Armandeville's  .office).  She  read  this  first;  then  sat 
motionless  considering  it,  pursing  her  lips  as  she  had  over 
the  unopened  envelope  that  lay  at  her  elbow,  and  slightly 
tapping  the  big  blotter. 

A  young  woman  came  up  and  whispered  to  the  odd-look- 
ing man.  He  promptly  gave  her  his  seat  and  went  away, 
getting  into  his  overcoat  as  he  passed  out  the  door. 


THE   HONEY  BEE  5 

The  girl  dropped  a  muff  and  stole  of  imitation  ermine 
on  the  chair  and  began  a  letter,  writing  hurriedly. 

Miss  Wilson  looked  at  the  furs.  A  smile  flickered  about 
the  corners  of  her  mouth  and  brightened  her  eyes  as  she  in- 
dulged in  a  mental  "Meaow!"  Then  her  face  sobered. 
She  reached  for  her  pen  and  wrote  as  follows,  in  a  strong 
slanting  hand : 

"DEAK  MR.  HEMSTEAD  :  Your  letter  of  the  seventh  has 
just  come.  I  fully  appreciate  the  consideration  in  your 
suggestion,  but  I  do  feel  some  chagrin  at  the  thought  that 
others  have  noted  my  condition.  It  is  only  within  the 
last  few  weeks  that  I've  fully  realized  it  myself.  I  seem  to 
be  getting  about  three  hours'  sleep  a  night.  And  my  head 
has  taken  to  aching,  in  the  back.  I  lost  my  temper  to-day. 
"Don't  know  when  I've  done  such  a  thing.  I  see  now  that 
I  should  have  taken  that  solid  month  off  last  summer, 
when  you  wanted  me  to. 

"But  I  really  don't  feel  that  I  can  take  it  now.  One  rea- 
son is — I  see  I've  got  to  face  this — that  when  I  do  stop  it 
may  take  more  than  a  month  to  make  me  fit  again.  An- 
other is  that  May  Isbell,  while  she  is  taking  hold  better 
every  day,  isn't  quite  ready  yet  to  carry  responsibility.  I 
4on't  dare  load  it  on  her  now — not  with  the  spring  busi- 
ness just  ready  to  hit  us. 

"So  she  and  I  will  sail  for  home  on  the  25th  or  26th.  I 
will  cable  date  and  steamer  some  days  before  this  reaches 
you.  For  the  present  she  is  down  at  Nice  and  Monte 
Carlo  studying  the  fashions.  I  am  impressing  on  her  the 
importance  of  keeping  close  to  the  real  centers.  She  will 
come  up  via  Calais  and  meet  me  at  London.  We  are  not 
making  Berlin  this  trip.  I  sent  you  a  letter  last  night  re- 
porting on  business  matters. 

"The  week  on  the  ocean  will  tone  me  up  well  enough  for 
the  present.  And  I  promise  you  to  let  go  the  minute  the 
spring  business  begins  to  slacken. 

"And  now  regarding  Stanley  Aitcheson.  I'm  sorry  you 
had  to  know  about  it.  But  of  course,  if  he  broke  out  like 


€  THE  HONEY  BEE 

ttiat  to  Mr.  Martin,  it  had  to  come  up  to  you.  Yon  ask 
if  he  has  made  me  any  trouble.  Well — no.  Not  what  you 
would  call  trouble.  I'll  tell  you  just  what  I  think  it  is. 
He's  really  a  bit  of  genius.  You  know  he  can  say  in  six 
words  what  Sumner  and  Deal's  man  needs  sixty  for.  We've 
never  had  an  advertising  man  who  was  so  quick  to  catch 
the  talking  points  of  the  merchandise,  especially  with  these 
feminine  things,  or  who  could  so  consistently  write  the 
stuff  that  pulls  the  crowd.  I  don't  know  but  what  he  is 
entitled  to  a  little  burst  of  'temperament'  now  and  then. 
He  is  young  and  imaginative,  and  this  infatuation  seems 
to  have  mixed  him  all  up  for  the  time. 

"I  hope  you  won't  think  it  necessary  to  do  anything 
about  it.  Give  him  a  little  time.  In  the  meanwhile,  I 
think  I  can  handle  it. 

"Do  you  mind  my  sending  this  to  your  club  address  in- 
itead  of  the  office  ?  It  is  rather  personal 

"Sincerely, 

"HILDA  WILSON/' 


She  read  this  letter  over  twice,  very  slowly;  and  knit 
her  brows.  There  were  two  or  three  things  about  it  that 
felt  distinctly  wrong;  her  judgment,  usually  automatic  in 
all  personal  as  in  business  relationships,  was  unmistakably 
shaky  to-day. 

She  knew  Joe  Hemstead  pretty  well;  and  she  knew  he 
would  not  like  the  idea  of  her  coming  back  and  trying  to 
work  after  her  own  admission  that  she  did  not  feel  equal 
to  it.  No,  he  wouldn't  like  that.  He  would  begin  from 
that  moment  to  doubt  if  she  was,  after  all,  big  enough  for 
her  job.  That  was  just  the  point  with  Joe  Hemsfcead.  His 
confidence  in  you  was  a  stimulus  day  in  and  day  out;  but 
you  had  to  go  right  on  earning  that  confidence,  all  the 
time. 

Then  there  was  this  disturbing  affair  of  Stanley  Aitch- 


THE   HONEY  BEE  7 

eson.  She  was  inclined  to  think  she  was  saying  too  much" 
about  him.  Besides,  she  was  taking  a  position  in  the  mat- 
ter before  considering  all  the  facts — there  lay  Stanley's 
letter  at  her  elbow,  unopened.  She  didn't  want  to  open  it. 

She  had  thought  to  shake  off  her  curiously  unsettling 
mood  by  dashing  away  from  M.  Armandeville's  office  into 
the  open  air.  But  now  that  mood  was  strengthening  its 
grip  on  her.  It  was  becoming  a  real  depression,  a  sinking 
feeling — as  if  the  bottom  had  all  at  once  dropped  out  of 
life.  The  absurdity  of  this  sensation  was  obvious.  It  was 
the  particular  sort  of  weakness  with  which  she  had  no  pa- 
tience. She  set  her  will  against  it ;  but  it  grew,  a  creeping 
paralysis  of  the  spirit.  She  began  to  realize  that  she  def- 
initely dreaded  going  back  and  plunging  into  the  spring 
rush.  You  had  to  drive  so.  It  took  so  much  out  of  you. 

"But  then/'  she  mused,  "we  have  to  do  a  good  many 
things  in  this  life  that  we  don't  want  to  do." 

After  which  she  rested  her  cheek  on  her  hand  and  gazed 
down,  very  soberly,  at  the  little  pile  of  letters.  It  is  not 
so  easy  to  talk  down  one's  own  misgivings. 

Then  she  realized  that  some  one  was  speaking  to  her — 
the  girl  across  the  table. 

"I  beg  pardon,"  said  Miss  Wilson. 

The  girl's  voice  faltered  shyly  as  she  repeated — 

"How  do  you  spell  pasteurized?" 

Miss  Wilson  started  to  reply,  hesitated,  and  laughed  a 
little.  "If  you  hadn't  asked  me  so  quickly — it's — oh,  yes, 
of  course."  And  she  spelled  it  out. 

The  girl  wrote  it  down ;  then  looked  up  again.  "I  never 
was  any  good  at  spelling,"  she  ventured.  "But  I  could 
always  get  dates — in  history,  you  know.  And  I  was  al- 
ways over  ninety  in  algebra  and  deportment." 

"It  is  a  special  gift,  I  think,"  replied  Miss  Wilson. 


8  THE   HONEY  BEE 

"There  are  a  good  many  highly  educated  people  who  can't 
spell." 

"Oh,  is  that  so !"  replied  the  girl,  appearing  greatly  re- 
lieved. Then,  as  if  fearing  that  she  had  spoken  too  loud, 
she  bit  her  lip  and  glanced  timidly  about  at  the  near-by 
tables. 

For  a  little  time  after  that  Miss  Wilson  watched  her  as 
she  went  on  with  her  letter.  Ordinarily  girls  bored  Miss 
Wilson.  There  were  seventeen  hundred  of  them  in  the 
store,  and  they  were  always  getting  either  themselves  or 
you  into  trouble.  Indeed  one  of  her  chief  annoyances  was 
that  Mr.  Martin,  whose  task  it  was  to  employ  the  help, 
was  too  easy  with  them.  And  Joe  Hemstead  backed  him 
up  in  it.  Take  the  case  of  Annie  Haggerty,  for  instance. 
A  sensible  woman  could  see  in  a  moment  that  Annie  was 
simply  bad.  .  .  .  But  any  idle  speculation  was  a  relief 
as  Miss  Wilson  felt  this  afternoon.  And  this  girl  across 
the  table  was  curiously  difficult  to  place. 

She  was  very  young — hardly  more  than  nineteen  or 
twenty — and  slim,  with  a  rather  small  head  nicely  poised 
on  a  long  neck;  a  firm,  almost  muscular  neck,  when  you 
looked  closely.  She  had  a  wide  friendly  mouth,  that 
showed  a  tendency  to  droop  at  the  corners,  an  unobtrusive 
chin,  and  large  green-brown  eyes.  "Cow  eyes,"  thought 
Miss  Wilson,  "but  they're  honest  enough.  What  on  earth 
is  she  doing  in  Paris!  Looks  like  Brooklyn.  Or  Bridge- 
port." 

Finding  no  answer  to  her  question,  she  let  her  eyes  rove 
over  the  girl's  costume.  This  was  every  whit  as  puzzling 
as  the  face.  The  hat  was  small,  with  a  single  high  feather 
set  at  not  quite  the  right  angle.  "Trimmed  it  herself," 
thought  Miss  Wilson,  "after  a  look  around  on  the  boule- 
vards." The  very  plain  black  suit  had  probably  been  picked 


THE   HONEY   BEE  0 

up  in  London.  The  "waist"  was  American.  "Two-nine- 
teen  on  Fourteenth  Street,"  Miss  Wilson  decided. 

There  was  not  a  single  indication  that  anybody  had  ever 
spent  a  cent  on  the  girl.  But  if  that  was  the  case,  how 
did  she  ever  get  to  Paris  at  all  ?  She  couldn't  conceivably 
be  a  tourist.  And  she  didn't  have  the  married  look. 
Though  you  can't  always  tell.  Still — yes,  that  was  the 
only  conceivable  explanation. 

"What  a  city  Paris  is !"  she  mused,  at  last  in  a  measure 
drawn  out  of  her  moody  introspection.  "Every  sort  of 
person  drifts  in  here.  Anything  can  happen  here.  Any- 
thing does  happen,  all  the  time." 

She  fell  to  resenting  the  fact  that  she  had  never  really 
seen  Paris — onty  a  few  of  the  hotels,  certain  of  the  res- 
taurants on  the  Eight  Bank,  the  Folie  Bergeres  once  with 
a  crowd  from  Armandeville's,  and  always  the  Opera  Co- 
mique  in  winter  and  Longchamp  in  summer  for  the  fash- 
ions, the  familiar  dressmaking  establishments,  that  was 
about  all.  She  had  never  been  in  the  famous  old  Quartier 
Latin.  Ed  Johnson,  the  glove  buyer,  had  talked  enthu- 
siastically, one  lonely  evening  at  Vienna,  of  Lavenue's  and 
its  violinist,  of  the  merry  irresponsible  life  at  the  Cafe 
d'Harcourt.  She  knew  well  enough  that  the  men  buyers 
looked  around  a  bit.  They  didn't  let  their  work  cut  into 
their  evenings — not  to  any  uncomfortable  extent.  But 
then,  they  were  men.  They  took  the  world  as  it  came,  the 
world  that  was  at  every  point  adapted  to  their  needs,  their 
qualities,  their  desires.  They  did  not  have  that  exceed- 
ingly delicate  structure,  reputation,  to  look  after — not  so 
that  you'd  notice  it.  They  were  judged,  not  by  their  slips, 
but  by  their  abilities  and  achievements. 

"Xo,"  she  reflected,  "men  aren't  in  a  net  all  their  life 
with  an  enemy  at  every  opening  if  they  try  to  escape."  At 


10  THE   HONEY   BEE 

this  point  her  thoughts  became  vaguer,  more  in  the  nature 
of  inarticulate  feelings.  She  was  conscious  of  intense 
solitude ;  of  the  woman's  need,  if  she  has  chosen  work,  to 
work  harder  and  harder  and  harder,  to  drive  herself  mer- 
cilessly, to  build  up  an  artificial  life  of  routine  and  habit 
that  shall  finally  overlay  the  silent  deep  stirrings  and 
yearnings  that  come.  .  .  . 

Then,  with  the  thought,  "I'm  getting  absolutely  mor- 
bid !"  she  made  an  effort  to  bring  her  thoughts  back  to  the 
bright  busy  surface  of  life,  where  a  woman  must  dwell  if 

Bhe  is  to  dwell  alone. 

i 

The  girl  looked  up,  and  met  her  eyes. 

"Have  you  been  here  long?"  asked  Miss  Wilson. 

"Two  months  in  Paris.  Fourteen  months  altogether  on 
this  side.  I'll  be  glad  to  get  back."  The  corners  of  the 
girl's  mouth  drooped  as  the  easy  smile  died  out. 

"That  is  a  long  while  to  be  away." 

The  man  with  the  Gothic  eyelid  appeared  in  the  door- 
way. He  was  coming  toward  the  table  until  he  observed 
that  the  girl  and  the  woman  were  talking.  He  stopped 
short,  then,  took  off  his  overcoat,  and  walked  back  to  the 
newspaper  table  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room.  Miss 
Wilson  watched  him.  He  was  fairly  tall — five  feet  ten  or 
eleven,  she  thought — with  noticeably  good  shoulders.  And 
he  moved  with  almost  feminine  grace. 

She  decided  to  take  a  chance. 

"Your  husband  just  came  back,"  she  observed  casually. 

"My  what!"  exclaimed  the  girl  blankly.  Then,  after 
a  glance  over  her  shoulder,  she  added — "He  isn't  my  hus- 
band. I'm  not  married.  That's  Blink  Moran." 

"Blink  Moran!"  repeated  Miss  Wilson,  unable  to  sup- 
press a  smile. 

"Don't  you  know  who  he  is  ?" 


THE   HONEY   BEE  11 

Miss  "Wilson  didn't  know. 

"Why,  the  middleweight  boxer.    He's  American,  too." 

"Not  Irish  ?"    Miss  Wilson  was  still  smiling. 

"Oh,  that's  only  the  name  he  took  when  he  started  fight- 
ing. He's  really  a  Dutchman,  from  Holland,  Michigan. 
Used  to  keep  bees.  His  family  name's  awful  funny — Klopf  s- 
horn,  or  Stoomboot,  or  something.  It  wouldn't  do,  you 
know,  on  the  stage  or  in  the  ring." 

"No,"  agreed  Miss  Wilson,  conscious  of  a  quickened  if 
rather  startled  interest  in  the  man,  "I  suppose  it  wouldn't." 

"He's  a  nice  fellow,"  the  girl  chattered  on.  "Takes  won- 
derful care  of  himself — doesn't  drink  or  smoke.  And  he 
doesn't  like  women  very  well.  You  see,  he  has  lived  here 
three  or  four  years.  When  he  first  came  over  he  fell  in  love 
with  a  French  girl  and  she  got  all  his  money  away  from 
him  that  he'd  saved — nearly  eighteen  thousand  francs. 
Then  she  ran  off  to  South  America  with  a  fellow — Buenos 
Aires.  I'd  like  to  go  there."  She  sighed.  "He  told  Will 
Harper  the  whole  story.  Will  Harper's  my  partner.  He 
fights  all  over  Europe  now — in  Germany  and  Spain  and 
Austria  and  Egypt  and — and  Tunis  and  Algiers.  Makes 
a  good  deal  of  money,  I  think.  He  was  to  have  a  match 
with  Carpentier,  but  Carpentier's  afraid  of  him." 

This  was  certainly  a  bit  out  of  the  common.  Miss  Wil- 
son felt  the  touch  of  momentary  exhilaration  that  busy 
persons  of  routine  habit  are  likely  to  feel  when  an  occa- 
sional glimpse  is  vouchsafed  them  of  that  irresponsible 
region  known  as  "Bohemia."  She  carried  the  conversa- 
tion on  for  a  little  time,  but  without  success  in  arriving  at 
an  explanation  of  the  girl. 

"She  looks  like  something  or  other" — so  ran  Miss  Wil- 
son's thoughts — "as  if  she  could  do  some  one  thing  well. 
She's  straight,  or  at  least  honest — couldn't  tell  much  of  a 


13 

lie.  She  doesn't  want  anything  from  me,  just  feels  friendly. 
But  she  is  certainly  in  with  a  queer  crowd.  Prize-fight- 
ers! .  .  .  Maybe  I'll  have  something  to  tell  Ed  John- 
son yet." 

"While  she  was  studying  the  girl,  the  cow  eyes  came  up 
again. 

"You  spoke  of  your  partner,"  said  Miss  "Wilson.  "Are 
you  a  business  woman  ?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"I'm  one  myself,"  Miss  Wilson  continued,  by  way  of  re- 
assuring her.  "I  have  a  department  in  a  New  York  store." 

The  girl  did  not  seem  much  impressed  with  this,  though 
she  smiled  pleasantly.  "No,"  she  said,  "I  don't  know  any- 
thing about  business.  Be  better  off  if  I  did.  I'm  a 
dancer." 

"Oh,  a  dancer !" 

"Yes — one  of  the  four  Texas  Twisters.  "We're  in  the 
review  at  the  Parnasse  Music  Hall,  my  partner  and  I. 
Probably  you've  seen  us  in  New  York — Harper  and 
Eainey,  we  are.  I'm  Adele  Eainey." 

Miss  Wilson  shook  her  head. 

The  girl  was  frankly  surprised,  and  a  thought  disap- 
pointed. 

"You've  heard  of  us,  though?" 

Again  Miss  Wilson,  though  swiftly  ransacking  her  mem- 
ory, had  to  give  a  negative  response. 

"That  so?  I  just  thought  probably  you  had.  It  takes 
a  long  time  to  get  your  personality  across.  Will's  all  the 
time  saying  that."  She  sighed.  But  in  a  moment  she  was 
chattering  on.  <(You  know  they're  wild  over  American 
dances  in  Paris.  And  rag  songs.  At  the  Parnasse  they 
have  to  have  twenty  English  chorus  girls  because  so  many 


THE  HONEY;  BEE  is 

of  our  American  songs  can't  be  translated.  Like  Hiicliyt 
Koo,  I  mean,  and  Some  Boy,  and  Snoofcy  OoJcums.  Then 
we  go  on  every  afternoon  at  the  tango  tea.  runny — they 
call  it  'the'."  " 

"Tay  ?"  repeated  Miss  "Wilson,  amused. 

"No,  not  that.  'Teh',  more  like.  It's  pretty  near  time 
for  me  to  be  getting  around  there."  She  consulted  the 
nickel  watch  that  was  bound  to  her  wrist  with  a  black 
strap.  "In  half  an  hour.  "Wouldn't  you  like  to  come  ?  It's 
nice  there  in  the  afternoon." 

Miss  Wilson  found  herself  somewhat  taken  aback. 
Things  were  moving  rapidly.  The  girl  seemed  to  have  no 
reserve  at  all — nothing  of  that  instinctive  caution,  that 
instant  readiness  to  mask  one's  feelings  and  pit  one's  wits 
against  a  hostile  mind  that  is  dominant  in  all  competitive 
business.  After  all,  it  was  distinctly  refreshing.  Though 
how  on  earth  so  ingenuous  a  child,  knocking  about  in  the 
crazy  underworld  of  stageland,  could  last  a  year  without 
being  utterly  smashed  was  a  question.  Come  to  think  of 
it,  they  did  get  smashed,  all  the  time.  Though  it  occurred 
to  her  that  a  dancer,  if  she  really  knew  the  job,  would 
stand  a  much  better  chance  than  a  mere  untrained  chorus 
girl.  It  was  the  people  without  training  that  went  to 
pieces,  people  without  a  real  grip  on  something.  It  was 
that  way  at  the  store. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  can,"  she  replied.  "I  have  let- 
ters to  write,  and  after  that  I  ought  to  go  back  to  the  hotel 
and  lie  down.  But  thank  you  for  asking  me." 

The  girl's  face  sobered.  "I  can't  really  take  you  in,"  she 
explained  painstakingly.  "Not  in  the  stage  door.  They 
wouldn't  let  you  through.  You'd  have  to  buy  a  ticket  and 
come  in  the  front.  But  it's  only  two  francs — and  two 


14  THE   HONEY  BEE 

more  for  the  tea,  of  course.  And  you  could  come  back  and 
sit  with  us  in  the  artists'  corner." 

"Well,"  replied  Miss  Wilson,  "maybe  I  will."  She 
looked  down  at  the  letters;  then,  with  compressed  lips, 
picked  up  the  one  she  had  laid  aside  and  turned  it  slowly 
over  and  over  in  her  hands. 

It  was  a  rule  of  her  life  never  to  slight  the  work  of  the 
day.  She  prided  herself  on  a  sort  of  healthy  contempt  for 
mental  philandering.  Yet  she  felt  distinctly  tempted  to 
let  everything  slide  and  go  to  this  absurd  "the  tango"  with 
her  rather  interesting  new  acquaintance.  The  letter  in 
her  hands  that  she  found  such  difficulty  in  opening  sym- 
bolized the  pressure  that  was  driving  her  to  let  go  in  just 
that  way. 

"I  think  I'll  do  it,"  she  thought.  "Just  relax  for  once, 
before  I  get  too  old  and  set  to  relax  at  all.  It's  exactly 
what  Joe  Hemstead  has  been  talking,  and  Ed,  and  Martin. 
They'll  be  thinking  next  that  I've  lost  my  resiliency,  and 
that's  just  one  more  way  of  saying  I  can't  handle  my  job. 
They  do  these  things  all  the  time.  They  go  to  ball  games- 
all  summer,  while  I'm  sticking  close  at  the  store.  Every 
fall  they  put  on  their  old  clothes  and  go  hunting  off  in  the 
woods  and  talk  rough  and  let  their  beards  grow.  And  it 
doesn't  hurt  their  work.  Not  a  bit.  They  keep  efficient, 
and  they  keep  human.  Why,  even  when  Ed  gets  drunk  the 
men  all  look  after  him  and  ease  things  off  for  him.  There's 
something  men  have  among  themselves — and  I  don't  be- 
lieve I  shall  ever  know  what  it  is." 

Then,  with  a  deliberate  exercise  of  will  power,  she  cen- 
tered her  attention  on  the  unopened  letter  in  her  hands. 

It  was  a  long  letter,  written  in  impassioned  language  that 
seemed  altogether  unreal  to  Miss  Wilson  as  she  read  hastily 
through  it.  It  was  signed,  "Stanley  A." 


THE   HONEY   BEE  15 

"Tell  me  this/'  ran  the  conclusion.  "If  you  did  not  care 
for  me,  why  did  you  permit  me  to  become  so  fond  of  you  ? 
As  it  is  now,  the  thing  is  beyond  my  strength.  I'm  half 
crazy  with  it.  It  wakes  me  at  night.  It  depresses  me,  and 
rouses  moods  that  I  can't  control.  It  certainly  isn't  my 
fault.  Perhaps  it  isn't  yours,  either.  But  this  is  a  real 
love.  You  take  it  lightly.  You  ignore  me.  You  refuse 
to  answer  my  letters.  You  try  to  make  me  out  a  mere  boy. 
You  are  hard,  hard,  hard.  You  have  let  business  deaden 
your  feelings.  For  you  must  have  had  a  heart  once,  or  I 
couldn't  have  felt  the  quality  in  you  that  made  me  love 
you." 

And  so  on  and  on.  Miss  Wilson  was  flushing ;  but  be- 
hind this  emotional  mask  her  mind  was  cold.  What  an 
amazing  mixture  of  ardor  and  reproach !  What  on  earth 
could  she  say  or  do !  She  had  never  dreamed  of  this  storm 
until  the  moment  it  broke,  a  few  months  back.  She  knew 
his  age — he  was  five  years  younger  than  she.  And  she 
liked  him.  But  his  outbursts  left  her  speechless. 

"I  can't  go  on  like  this."  Thus  the  concluding  sen- 
tences. "I  have  told  Mr.  Martin  I  shall  leave  before  you 
return.  I  can't  go  on.  Whatever  becomes  of  me,  remem- 
ber I  love  you  and  you  alone — Oh,  these  poor  old  phrases ! 
They've  been  said  and  written  a  million  million  times  in 
this  ugly,  bitter  old  world !  A  million  million  times  have 
men  poured  out  these  phrases  to  women  who  have  laughed 
or  kept  silent.  I  shall  leave  this  part  of  the  world.  It  won't 
do  for  me  to  be  near  you — I  should  simply  break  out 
again.  And  you,  with  your  coldness,  would  hurt  me  more 
than  I  could  bear.  Only  once  more  I  shall  see  you.  I 
don't  know  where  or  when,  but  I  shall  see  you  once.  After 
that  it  will  be  good-by.  I  don't  know  what  will  become  of 
me  then.  But  I  must  give  you  one  more  chance  to  show 
at  least  a  human  feeling  toward  me." 

She  went  back  and  read  the  letter  all  through  again, 


16  THE   HONEY   BEE 

slowly.  It  irritated  her.  For  it  stirred  memories  of  the 
one  real  love  story  in  her  life — memories  she  had  been  try- 
ing, during  nearly  eight  years,  to  supplant  with  hard  work 
and  new  interests. 

Stanley's  outbreaks  had  roused  her  before,  on  a  number 
of  occasions.  That  was  what  irritated  her — his  power  to 
stir  her  feelings.  That  was  what  irritated  her  in  the  ap- 
proaches of  old  M.  Armandeville  and  the  many  others. 
For  they  made  her  think  about  love.  And  for  years  she 
had  told  herself  that  she  did  not  wish  to  think  about  love. 

Certainly  this  new  letter  of  Stanley's  had  stirred  her 
deeply.  Confused  feelings  were  rushing  up  from  the  re- 
mote corners  of  memory,  recollections  of  the  one  great 
emotional  storm  that  had  swept  over  her  and  that  had 
left  behind  it  yearnings  and  a  strain  of  bitterness.  The 
man,  in  her  case,  had  been  her  first  employer,  Harris 
Doreyn,  of  Chicago.  He  was  married.  Their  attachment 
had  grown,  little  by  little,  through  several  years  of  a  close 
working  companionship.  It  had  very  nearly  swept  both  off 
their  feet.  Then,  to  save  herself,  she  had  left  him ;  and  he 
had  been  man  enough  to  let  her  go. 

She  had  for  a  time  succeeded,  especially  during  the 
years  of  her  first  success  at  New  York,  in  driving  these 
poignant,  bewildering  memories  out  of  mind.  But  lately, 
since  the  enthusiasm  of  her  middle  twenties  had  passed 
and  her  nerves  had  begun  to  show  the  effects  of  those  driv- 
ing years,  they  had  with  increasing  frequency  slipped  back 
among  her  conscious  thoughts.  More  than  a  year  earlier 
she  had  become  aware,  through  a  bantering  remark  of  Ed 
Johnson's,  that  she  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  quoting 
bits  of  the  philosophy  of  Harris  Doreyn.  Since  then  she 
had  on  more  than  one  occasion  caught  herself  at  this,  and 
had  made  up  her  mind  to  be  more  careful  about  it.  Even 


THE   HONEY  BEE  17 

after  the  years,  it  was  best  that  she  should  not  appear  to 
have  much  to  say  about  that  man. 

Her  irritation  deepened.  She  did  not  like  to  hurt  this 
bewildered  boy;  but  above  all  she  resented  being  hurt  her- 
self. 

She  seized  a  pen,  and  with  a  hand  that  trembled  wrote 
right  across  the  first  page  of  his  letter — 

"You  have  no  right  to  say  these  things.  Please  do  not 
do  so  again,  as  I  can  not  discuss  them  with  you.  You  are 
making  it  impossible  for  me  to  treat  you  with  even  ordi- 
nary courtesy.  If  you  are  not  a  poor  coward  you  will  stay 
at  your  desk  and  make  good.  And  please  try  to  understand 
once  and  for  all  that  I  do  not  care  for  you  in  this  way  and 
never  shall.  This  is  final.  I  do  not  wish  to  be  forced  to 
<say  it  again." 

The  girl  across  the  table  looked  up  now,  and  spoke. 

"Do  you  think  you'd  like  to  come  ?" 

Miss  Wilson  knit  her  brows;  and  said,  "Let  me  think  a 
moment." 

She  reread  what  she  had  just  written. 

Then  she  deliberately  tore  it  into  small  bits,  and  the 
rest  of  his  letter  with  it,  and  dropped  it  all  into  the  waste 
basket.  There  was  downright  perplexity  on  her  face. 
Writing  a  letter  in  a  fit  of  anger — she  certainly  knew  bet- 
ter than  that.  And  calling  him  a  "poor  coward" — he 
would  have  a  case  against  her,  and  in  the  intensity  of  his 
confusion  would  press  it.  She  simply  couldn't  write  him 
at  all,  and  she  wouldn't  try. 

Adele  Rainey  turned  and  beckoned  to  her  friend  the 
middleweight.  He  promptly  put  down  his  newspaper  and 
came  walking  swiftly  and  lightly  toward  them,  the  whole 
length  of  the  big  room.  It  occurred  to  Miss  Wilson,  as 


18  THE   HONEY   BEE 

she  covertly  watched  him,  that  he  had  the  grace  of  a  tiger, 
and  the  strength. 

Adele  looked  up  at  him.  with  some  anxiety  on  her  in- 
genuous face.  "I  suppose  everything  was  all  right?"  she 
said.  "Or  else  you  would  have  come  and  told  me." 

Miss  Wilson  listened  for  his  reply.  She  was  prepared 
for  rough  and  ungrammatical  speech.  Probably  he  would 
say  "youse"  and  "t'inks,"  and  that  curiously  indiscrim- 
inate substitute  for  the  second  personal  pronoun,  "Bo." 
Little  Jimmy  Hartigan,  who  did  her  errands  at  the  store, 
was  consumed  with  admiration  for  just  such  rough  char- 
acters as  this  Blink  person;  and  she  had  labored  much,  at 
times,  to  elevate  his  standard  of  English  speech. 

But  the  Blink  person  replied,  very  simply  and  directly — 

"Yes — all  right.  It  cried  some,  and  I  held  it  while 
Blondie  went  to  the  English  drug  store  for  some  pare- 
goric. Then  it  went  to  sleep  again." 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  the  girl,  "was  Blondie  there?  Where 
was  Millicent?" 

"Monocle  John  came  for  her  with  a  taxi  to  substitute 
for  Juliette  at  the  Parnasse." 

The  girl  looked  very  thoughtful.  "I'd  rather  he'd  taken 
Blondie,"  she  mused.  "Millicent's  got  more  sense.  I've 
been  writing  to  Juliette.  Have  they  heard  anything  from, 
her?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of."  He  consulted  his  watch.  "It's 
about  time  to  be  starting." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  replied,  sealing  her  letter  and  reach- 
ing for  the  imitation  ermine  stole.  Then  she  hesitated  and 
sent  an  inquiring  glance  across  the  table. 

Miss  Wilson  came  at  that  instant  to  a  decision. 

"Be  with  you  in  a  minute,"  she  said. 

She  tore  up  the  letter  to  Joe  Hemstead  and  sent  the 


THE   HONEY  BEE  19 

small,  fluttering  pieces  to  nestle  among  the  remains  of  the 
Aitcheson  letter  in  the  waste  basket.  Her  gray-blue  eyes 
flashed  as  she  took  a  cable  blank  from  the  rack,  and 
wrote — 

"Hemstead  Hartmanshop  New  York.  Talcing  vacation 
now  sending  Isbell  back  letter  follows.  Wilson." 

"I  can  send  it  from  the  branch  post-office  in  the  Eue 
Gluck-Meyerbeer,"  she  thought,  "on  our  way.  And  I'll 
wire  May  to-night  when  I've  had  time  to  think  it  over." 

Blink  Moran  stood  opposite  her  now.  Evidently  intro- 
ductions were  not  essential  in  this  circle ;  for  Adele  Eainey 
merely  said,  "The  lady's  coming  with  us,  Blink."  And 
Blink  inclined  his  head,  gravely. 

At  the  curb  he  called  a  taxi.  He  stepped  out  at  the 
post-office  to  send  the  cablegram  for  Miss  "Wilson;  and  at 
her  request  told  her  exactly  how  much  it  came  to.  He  was 
straightforward,  but  very  reserved.  Which  fact  rather 
amused  Miss  Wilson.  A  grave  reticence,  not  without  its 
element  of  quiet  courtesy,  was  hardly  the  quality  she  would 
have  looked  for  in  a  prize-fighter. 

Well,  here  she  was — crowded  into  a  taxi  with  this  well- 
dressed  pugilist  and  a  badly  dressed  dancing  girl  with  at- 
tractively honest  eyes.  She  felt  reasonably  certain  that 
the  confusion  of  purpose  within  her  and  the  distinct  touch 
of  exhilaration  were  not  apparent.  Her  face  and  manner 
were  too  well  schooled  for  that. 

She  wondered  what  next. 


II 


SHE   GOES  TO  A  NOVEL  ENTERTAINMENT;   WEARING,   HOW- 
EVER, THE  WRONG  CLOTHES 

MISS  WILSON"  and  Blink  Moran  sat  far  back  in  the 
"artists'  corner"  of  the  Parnasse  tea  room,  at  the  ex- 
treme end  of  the  low  platform  that  enabled  the  patrons 
of  the  rear  rows  of  tables  to  see  the  dancing  over  the 
heads  of  those  seated  on  the  floor  level.  He  answered 
her  questions  quietly  but  fully  enough.  Indeed,  familiar 
as  the  scene  was  to  him,  he  seemed  to  take  a  sober  sort  of 
enjoyment  in  the  bright  gaiety  of  it. 

The  couple  now  dancing  the  Maxixe  in  the  cleared  space 
between  the  tables  were  Etheridge  and  Gay,  of  the  Twist- 
ers troupe.  A  married  couple  by  the  way;  though  very 
young.  She  had  lost  her  baby,  in  London,  only  three 
months  back.  Also  on  the  floor  were  Millicent,  a  pretty 
girl,  of  the  English  chorus,  and  the  person  known  as  "Mon- 
ocle John,"  a  pasty-faced  French  youth  with  sleepy  eyes, 
one  of  which  was  partially  obscured  by  a  monocle.  The 
extraordinarily  blond  waiter,  who  met  Moran's  excellent 
French  at  .avery  point  with  a  surprising  command  of  Eng- 
lish, used  to  work  at  the  Plaza  and  the  Knickerbocker  in 
New  York.  And  the  boxer  smiled  a  little,  adding — "We 
always  do  this.  I  talk  French  to  him.  And  he  won't  talk 
anything  but  English  to  me." 

"You  speak  French  very  well,  don't  you?"  said  Miss 

20 


i  THE   HONEY  BEE  21 

Wilson,  witK  a  slight  touch  of  chagrin  that  this  rough  per- 
son should  outmatch  her  in  accomplishments.  But  he 
turned  the  little  compliment  aside  with  a  simple  "Oh,  you 
pick  it  up." 

It  became  gradually  evident — as  the  clock  over  the  en- 
trance door  struck  one  quarter-hour  after  another,  as  the 
hundreds  of  tables  filled  with  guests  of  every  imaginabla 
nationality,  as  the  violin  and  mandolin  orchestras  alter- 
nately played  the  latest  dance  music,  dreamy  and  gay,  aa 
graceful  tangoists  gave  way  to  the  riotous  "Texas  Twisters" 
in  cowboy  costume  and  then  again  took  the  floor — that  this 
same  Mr.  Moran  was  something  of  a  celebrity.  Every  one 
in  the  corner  of  this  great  room  unmistakably  knew  who 
he  was.  The  waiters,  the  dancers,  the  members  of  the 
orchestra  regarded  him  with  respect  that  was  not  with- 
out its  touch  of  awe.  She  saw  two  different  groups  of 
American  men,  at  near-by  tables,  looking  over  into  the  cor- 
ner and  whispering  about  him. 

The  fact  interested  her  because  it  explained  his  manner. 
Being  a  celebrity,  he  was  simply  acting  as  a  celebrity  is 
forced  to  act  by  the  attitude  of  the  world  about  him.  It 
explained  his  reticence  and  his  courtesy.  And  it  was  not 
surprising,  when  you  stopped  to  think  of  it.  She  knew 
that  the  boxer  is  greatly  respected  in  Paris,  that  he  may 
easily  have  something  near  a  social  standing.  Why,  Car- 
pentier,  the  heavyweight  champion,  was  the  idol  of  Paris, 
and  was  reported,  even  in  the  outer  circles  which  her  own 
life  occasionally  touched,  to  be  a  young  man  of  considera- 
ble charm. 

A  little  later  Moran  called  her  attention  to  these  same 
Americans.  They  were  all  drinking  highballs,  and  were 
rapidly  approaching  the  state  in  which  mellow  good  cheer 
gives  way  to  a  primitive  enjoyment  of  noise  as  such. 


22  THE   HONEY  BEE 

"Queer  how  "Americans  act  over  here,"  he  observed, 
studying  the  two  groups  reflectively.  "They  go  crazy." 

"Not  all  Americans." 

"Most  all.  The  men,  I  mean,  when  they  aren't  with 
their  families.  You  know  it  isn't  the  French  that  go  to 
pieces  in  Paris,  anyway.  It's  our  folks,  and  the  English 
and  Germans,  and  sometimes  the  South  Americans.  These 
Parisians  keep  their  heads,  and  put  their  boys  in  school, 
and  shut  up  their  daughters  where  we  won't  see  them,  and 
then  they  take  our  money.  They  don't  mind." 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  mused  Miss  "Wilson.  "It  al- 
ways seemed  a  pretty  lively  sort  of  place  to  me.  Though 
I've  always  been  too  busy  to  look  around  much." 

"Oh,  it's  lively  enough.  But  it  wouldn't  be  without  us 
foreigners.  Just  look  around  once  in  any  other  French 
city  and  you'll  see  what  I  mean.  An  American  or  Canadian 
may  be  all  right  at  home,  and  keep  fairly  straight  in  Lon- 
don, but  the  minute  he  hits  Paris,  everything's  off.  He 
explodes  with  a  big  bang.  His  mind's  all  prepared  for  it, 
you  see.  That's  the  way  he  thinks  of  Paris.  Take  those 
fellows  over  there,  now.  Pretty  soon  they'll  begin  yelling. 
Then  they'll  be  trying  to  make  some  of  these  tourist  ladies 
dance  with  them.  And  then  they'll  get  thrown  out.  It 
happens  most  every  day." 

"I  have  always  supposed,"  observed  Miss  "Wilson,  "that 
we  are  more  moral  than  the  French." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  about  that." 

"But  certainly,  as  a  people,  we  behave  better." 

"Better — and  worse,"  said  he.  "We  pull  a  longer  face. 
'And  we're  always  telling  ourselves  how  good  we  are  and 
how  wicked  the  French  are.  Oh,  we  don't  hate  ourselves ! 
Not  so  much.  But  when  we  blow,  we  blow  for  keeps.  And 
Mr.  Frenchman  just  looks  at  us,  and  wonders  what's  got 


THE   HONEY  BEE  23 

into  us,  and  goes  on  the  way  he  was  before — not  so  good 
and  not  so  bad.  I  was  talking  about  this  just  the  other  day 
with  an  English  newspaper  man.  He  says  the  Frenchman 
isn't  worse  than  us,  or  better.  It's  only  that  his  safety  valve 
is  set  lower." 

Miss  Wilson  chuckled  softly.  He  was  distinctly  a  bit  of 
a  philosopher,  her  prize-fighter.  She  would  have  liked  to 
carry  the  conversation  further,  had  not  a  sudden  diversion 
claimed  the  attention  of  both. 

A  slim  pretty  girl,  with  a  weakly  pleasant  face  and  ex- 
tremely blonde  hair  made  her  way  through  the  crowded 
tables  and  joined  the  group  of  "artists"  in  the  corner. 
She  spoke  to  Adele  Eainey. 

"The  doctor  was  in,  Adele,  and  he  says  it's  colic  when 
it  rolls  its  eyes  and  smiles  that  funny  way." 

Adele  looked  alarmed.  "Colic !"  she  exclaimed.  "But 
say,  Blondie,  you  didn't  leave  it  alone,  did  you?" 

"No,  two  of  the  girls  came  in.  He  gave  me  a  list  of 
things  to  get  at  the  drug  store  to  fix  the  food  with.  The 
milk's  too  strong.  Somebody  give  me  some  money." 

"Here,"  said  Moran,  handing  her  a  gold  louis. 

She  took  the  coin,  and,  admonished  by  Adele  to  lose  no 
time  on  her  errand,  went  back  through  the  crowd  and  out 
the  main  doorway. 

Shortly  after  this  Adele  brought  her  dancing  partner  to 
the  table. 

"This  is  the  lady  that  came  with  us,  "Will,"  she  said. 

Harper  bowed.  He  was  a  mere  youth  of  twenty  or  twen- 
ty-one with  a  pale,  almost  haggard  face.  He  smiled  a 
good  deal,  and  talked  eagerly,  as  if  anxious  to  make  a  pleas- 
ant impression.  Miss  Wilson  had  observed  that  his  fin- 
gers were  stained  with  nicotine,  and  that  every  moment 
that  he  was  not  actually  out  on  the  dancing  floor  he  wa§ 


24  THE   HONEY   BEE 

inhaling  cigarettes.  She  had  also  noted  the  fact  that  after 
a  very  few  moments  of  his  acrobatic  dancing  he  appeared 
exhausted  and  had  some  difficulty  in  getting  his  breath. 

"Are  you  interested  in  this  side  of  Paris  life?"  he  asked, 
so  palpably  talking  up  to  her  that  she  had  to  suppress  a 
smile. 

She  admitted  that  she  was. 

"Funny  how  you  meet  all  sorts  o'  people  here,"  he  ran 
on.  "Take  our  troupe,  for  instance.  Miss  Eainey's  from 
Buffalo.  I'm  from  Kansas  City.  You  wouldn't  expect  to 
find  a  Kansas  City  boy  working  here  on  the  boulevards — 
now  would  you !" 

Suddenly  his  face  clouded,  as  with  the  recurrence  of  a 
half-forgotten  anxiety.  "Say,  I'm  sort  o'  sorry  you  came 
to-day.  I'm  trying  out  a  new  tune  for  this  next  dance,  and 
there's  no  telling  how  it'll  go.  They  may  not  like  it  at  all, 
you  know.  I  been  using  Under  the  Car  for  Yours.  It's 
a  good  tune.  You  know  how  it  goes." 

To  make  sure,  he  hummed  it  huskily,  oblivious  to  the 
fact  that  the  mandolins  were  at  the  moment  filling 
the  air  with  a  quite  different  melody.  Plainly,  the  simplest 
thing  was  to  nod  knowingly;  which  Miss  Wilson  accord- 
ingly did. 

"I'm  trying  out  Tingle,  Tingle  to-day.  It's  a  good 
tune,  you  know.  But  you  never  can  tell  how  they'll  go  with 
the  crowd.  I've  got  a  trunk  full  of  songs  up-stairs,  though, 
and  I'll  try  7em  out  till  I  get  the  right  one.  You  come 
around  to-morrow,  and  if  this  thing  doesn't  work  out,  I'll 
go  back  to  Under  the  Car  for  Yours.  That's  safe,  any- 
way. This  way,  I'm  afraid  you  won't  get  much  idea  of 
my  dancing." 

Fortunately  his  call  came  then.  Miss  Wilson  glanced  at 
Moran  to  see  how  he  took  this  curiously  trivial  boy.  But 


THE   HONEY  BEE  25 

Moran  evidently  was  taking  him  in  the  same  way  that  he 
appeared  to  take  everything  else — as  a  matter  of  course. 
It  amused  her  further  to  observe  that  Adele  played  quite 
as  important  a  part  in  the  dance  as  the  boy's  egotistical 
self.  Indeed,  Adele  seemed  really  to  become  herself  on 
the  dancing  floor.  She  was  light  and  pleasing  as  a  fairy. 
She  even  took  on  a  degree  of  distinction. 

In  a  short  time  they  were  back;  Harper,  by  lighting  a 
cigarette  with  great  nonchalance,  endeavoring  to  conceal 
the  fact  that  for  the  moment  he  simply  could  not  recover 
his  breath.  A  moment  more  and  he  was  talking  again, 
rapidly  and  at  random.  He  asked  her  advice  regarding  the 
wisdom  of  accepting  a  tentative  offer  to  go  to  Budapest 
for  the  spring  months.  He  confided  to  her  that  he  and 
Adele  didn't  get  on  with  Etheridge  and  Gay.  "We're  go- 
ing to  break  up,  anyway,  after  this  engagement,"  he  whis- 
pered, close  to  her  ear.  "Jimmy  takes  my  steps  as  fast  as 
I  can  invent  'em.  He  gets  by  now  because  he's  got  me  to 
steal  from — but  you  watch  him  after  he's  been  going  it 
alone  for  a  month  or  two.  He  won't  have  a  thing.  Why, 
right  now  he  can't  even  do  a  wing.  Think  of  it !  Nothing 
but  this  Texas  Twist  step  and  some  straight  clogging.  And 
he  got  the  twist  from  me.  Harry  Behman — he  was  our 
manager  before — he  told  me  just  last  week  that  a  man 
who  can  dance  like  I  can  oughtn't  to  be  tied  up  with  a  fel- 
low like  Jimmy  Etheridge.  And  Harry  knows  my  work, 
you  see." 

At  this  point  Adele  hurried  him  off  to  change  his  cos- 
tume. 

When  he  returned,  it  was  with  a  fresh  idea.  "Say,"  he 
observed,  leaning  an  elbow  on  the  table,  "if  you  enjoy  see- 
ing this  side  of  Paris  life,  why  don't  you  make  Blink  here 
take  you  to  a  fight?  It's  the  great  thing  here  now,  you 


36  THE   HONEY  BEE 

know,  next  to  dancing.  All  Paris  is  crazy  about  boxing. 
They  call  it  La  Boxe.  Funny,  isn't  it !" 

This  curious  suggestion  came  to  Miss  Wilson  with  quite 
unexpected  force.  It  was  a  curious  suggestion — yet  why 
not !  Ed  Johnson  would  do  it  in  a  minute.  So  would  Joe 
Hemstead  himself,  for  that  matter,  if  it  happened  to  catch 
his  interest.  She  bit  her  lip;  and  the  gray-blue  eyes 
lighted. 

Moran  was  looking  down  at  his  empty  teacup,  moving 
the  grounds  about  with  his  spoon.  As  nearly  as  she  could 
make  out,  he  was  struggling  with  the  courteous  impulse  to 
accept  the  situation  young  Harper  had  thrust  upon  him. 
Perhaps  he  didn't  quite  know  what  to  make  of  the  idea 
of  taking  a  lady  to  a  fight. 

She  watched  him,  suppressing  a  smile.  She  saw  the 
bunches  of  muscle  on  his  jaws  move  and  set.  She  felt  the 
not  unmischievous  desire  to  pin  Mm  down  to  it  and  go 
straight  through  with  the  little  adventure,  now  that  she 
had  let  herself  go  so  far  along  the  way.  It  would  be  in- 
teresting to  see  how  he  would  handle  the  situation.  Then 
her  thoughts  fluttered.  She  was  certainly  being  swept  along 
at  a  great  rate.  And  it  did  sound  rather  alarming. 

He  raised  his  eyes,  and  met  hers  frankly.  The  Gothic 
eyebrow  seemed  grotesquely  conspicuous ;  yet  the  eyes  were 
attractively  cool  and  steady,  and  the  face  was  firm.  The 
color  arose  unexpectedly  in  her  cheeks;  and  again  she  bit 
her  lip. 

"There's  one  to-night,  if  you'd  care  to  see  it,"  he  said — 
"at  Luna  Park,  out  by  the  Porte  Maillot." 

It  was  her  chance.  Fourteen  driving  business  years  had 
taught  her  that  a  chance  will  not  keep.  And  so,  with  the 
sudden  queer  sensation  of  one  who  is  casting  off  all  moor- 


THE   HOKEY   BEE  27 

ings  and  swinging  out  on  a  very  long  trail  indeed,  she 
slowly  nodded. 

"Why,  thank  you/'  she  replied  calmly.  "I'd  like  very 
much  to  go." 

"All  right.  It's  Sam  Langford  and  a  big  Englishman. 
The  preliminaries  are  nearly  all  amateur — the  army  cham- 
pionships— not  very  interesting.  We  don't  want  to  get 
there  before  ten  o'clock.  If  you'll  tell  me  where  to  call 
for  you — " 

Miss  Wilson  wrote  the  name  of  her  hotel  on  a  card,  and 
gave  it  to  him. 

"I'll  be  ready  for  you  any  time  after  half  past  nine,  but 
oh,  as  to  clothes.  The  only  woman  I  ever  knew  that  went 
to  a  fight  wore  men's  things.  She  was  a  newspaper  girl." 
She  hesitated,  in  momentary  embarrassment. 

He  shook  his  head,  saying  merely,  "That  won't  be  nec- 
essary." 

She  could  have  asked  innumerable  questions — as  to  the 
exact  degree  of  brutality  she  must  steel  herself  to  endure 
with,  at  least,  outward  composure ;  as  to  this  Langford  and 
his  opponent,  who  they  might  be  and  where  they  might 
have  come  from;  something  more  in  detail  regarding  the 
proper  costume — but  she  promptly  decided  to  ask  none  of 
them,  just  to  go  ahead  and  accept  whatever  might  come. 
That  was  her  method  in  business ;  therefore  why  not  follow 
it  in  this  plunge  into  a  new  region  of  experience,  this  re- 
gion which  was  habitually  roamed  over  with  the  most 
casual  freedom  in  the  world  by  virtually  every  man  of  her 
acquaintance,  but  regarding  which  most  of  the  women  she 
knew  were  quite  ignorant  and  only  a  little  curious. 

When  she  rose  to  go,  it  was  a  relief  to  find  that  he  made 
no  offer  to  escort  her;  merely  bowed,  and  stood  by  his 


28  THE   HONEY  BEE 

chair  while  slie  said  good-by  to  Harper  and  Rainey.  THese 
young  persons  now  felt  that  they  had  known  her  well  for 
a  very  long  time  indeed,  and  were  properly  cordial  in  urg- 
ing her  to  return  on  the  morrow. 

It  was  with  a  sense  of  almost  complete  unreality  that  she 
threaded  her  way  among  the  tables,  walked  down  the  long 
passage  to  the  boulevard  entrance,  and  turned  toward  the 
Place  de  POpera. 

She  walked  briskly.  She  always  walked  briskly.  The 
afternoon  was  over  now,  and  the  early  winter  darkness  had 
settled  over  the  city.  The  broad  sidewalk  was  thronged. 
The  roadway  was  dense  with  moving  vehicles.  The  shops 
were  all  lighted,  and  the  street  lamps.  Newsboys  and 
fakers  shouted  their  wares.  Everywhere,  all  about  her, 
was  the  stir  and  pulse  of  intense  life.  She  responded  to  the 
stimulus  of  it,  but  still  with  that  odd  sense  of  unreality. 
It  was  an  eight-year-old  spectacle  to  her ;  but  as  a  personal 
experience  it  was  wholly  new.  She  had  seen  it  often  enough ; 
she  had  never  before  been  a  part  of  it.  To-day  Paris  had 
caught  her  up.  In  a  harmless  but  sufficiently  exciting  way 
she  purposed  whirling  along  with  it,  riding  with  the  tide, 
for  the  time  letting  her  life  take  its  own  course,  just  as 
Paris  does. 

No  more  drive  for  a  while — only  freedom !  She  drew  in 
a  quick  deep  breath  at  the  thought.  Of  course  she  would 
have  to  see  a  little  more  of  M.  Armandeville  and  his  staff, 
enough  to  make  certain  that  all  her  purchases  except  the 
three  dozen  stock  gowns  from  Caillaut's  and  the  cloaks  from 
Henri's  should  really  be  shipped  before  the  first,  and  these 
latter  not  later  than  March  twentieth.  And  she  must  lay 
out  May  Isbell's  work  pretty  carefully.  She  would  have 
May  come  back  to  Paris  instead  of  going  through  by  the 
Mediterranean-Calais  route  to  London,  keep  her  about  for 


THE   HOXEY   BEE  29 

a  day  or  two,  and  then  send  her  along.  The  business  let- 
ters that  were  now  in  her  wrist-bag  she  would  answer  this 
evening — before  going  out.  There  would  be  more  enjoy- 
ment in  the  evening  if  she  knew  that  these  few  nagging 
little  matters  were  definitely  out  of  her  mind.  It  was  like 
keeping  your  desk  clean  at  the  office;  you  slept  better  for 
it.  ...  Also  she  must  reply  to  her  mother's  letter.  She 
would  have  to  think  out  some  way  of  explaining  her  sudden 
decision  to  linger  abroad  that  would  forestall  any  worry 
on  her  mother's  part.  But  that  should  not  be  difficult. 

She  turned  to  the  right  at  the  Eue  de  la  Paix,  and 
walked  through  to  the  Eue  de  Eivoli,  turning  in  at  one  of 
the  big  cosmopolitan  hotels  which  border  that  historic 
avenue. 

Door  boys,  hall  boys,  lift  boys,  bright  with  buttons, 
ushered  her  along.  Walls  of  Circassian  walnut  and  bro- 
caded silk  closed  in  about  her.  Voices — American  voices — 
jangled  at  her  ears  from  groups  at  tea  tables.  She  hur- 
ried through  it  all  to  her  room.  She  hated  this  hotel,  that 
once,  eight  mortal  years  ago,  had  thrilled  her  with  its 
magnificence.  She  had  longed,  these  many  years,  to 
stop  at  some  peaceful  little  French  hostelry  that  would 
distinctly  not  be  on  the  Eue  de  Eivoli.  This  longing  re- 
curred now,  as  she  closed  the  door  and  wearily  tossed  her 
furs  on  the  bed ;  and  it  brought  resentments.  She  had  to 
stop  here  because  other  solitary  woman  buyers  stopped  here. 
It  was  the  beaten  track  for  such  as  she.  It  explained  her. 
It  justified  her.  It  gave  her  moral  standing  among  men 
whose  own  moral  sense  was  outrageously  complex — which 
moral  standing,  duly  appraised,  stood  to  her  credit  at 
the  Hartman  store,  classified  as  salary  account. 

She  ordered  up  a  light  dinner,  and  over  it  studied  the 
letters  that  demanded  answers.  Then  she  set  about  fram- 


SO  THE   HONEY   BEE 

ing  these  answers.  This  work  accomplished,  she  read  her 
mother's  letter,  and  sat  for  a  little  time  studying  it.  Once 
she  sighed.  Every  way  one  might  turn,  it  appeared,  loomed 
•an  eternity  of  puzzling  little  problems,  personal  tangles 
mostly,  that  must  be  thought  out  faithfully,  each  in  its 
phase  of  the  moment.  She  wrote  as  follows : 

"MOTHEE  DEAE  :  Yours  of  the  eighth  just  here  to-day. 
I  wrote  you  a  long  letter  night  before  last  that  answers 
most  of  your  questions,  I  think.  My  advice  is  to  go  right 
ahead  with  Harry's  tutor.  I'll  send  another  draft  to- 
morrow. And  really  I  don't  want  you  to  worry  about  the 
money.  It  will  save  Harry  a  year  in  getting  his  business 
start;  and  surely  that's  worth  a  slight  extra  investment. 
Now  isn't  it !  You  don't  seem  able  to  realize,  mother,  that 
your  daughter  is  a  very  successful  business  woman,  more 
than  thirty  years  old  and  earning  a  salary  of  eight  thou- 
sand a  year.  And  not  a  soul  to  spend  it  on  except  myself. 
Why,  I've  got  more  actual  income-producing  capital  laid 
aside  right  now  than  poor  old  dad  ever  saw  at  one  time  in 
his  whole  life. 

"As  for  Margie — It  is  hard  to  know  what  to  say.  But 
she's  not  such  a  child,  though,  mother.  She'll  be  twenty 
this  spring.  Perhaps  that  is  a  little  premature,  as  things 
go  nowadays,  but  we  mustn't  forget  for  a  moment  that  she 
has  a  good  strong  head.  I  don't  like  John  very  well  my- 
self, but  what  can  we  do  ?  It  won't  help  a  bit  to  oppose  her. 
Her  best  quality,  her  independence,  is  against  us  there.  If 
I  were  you  I'd  take  the  exactly  opposite  course.  Give  her 
her  head.  Let  her  have  him.  in  to  meals — make  him  feel 
at  home.  Don't  in  any  way  give  her  the  chance  to  work  up 
a  clandestine  romance  out  of  no  better  material  than  a 
sense  of  injury.  The  chances  are  either  that  she'll  grad- 
ually get  bored  to  death  or  else  that  the  rest  of  us  will  find 
out  what  it  is  she  sees  in  him. 

"I  keep  fairly  well,  though  very  busy.  Mr.  Hemstead 
is  urging  me  to  take  that  vacation  now  that  I  didn't  get 
last  summer,  and  I've  about  decided  to  do  it.  Things  are 


THE   HONEY   BEE  31 

going  all  right  at  the  store.  And  May  Ishell  will  be  quite 
competent  to  represent  me  there  for  a  short  time.  In  all 
the  times  I've  been  over  here,  I've  never  really  seen  any- 
thing but  a  few  cities  and  the  Khine  and  the  inside  of  a 
lot  of  sleeping  cars.  It  certainly  seems  to  be  a  chance 
worth  taking.  So  I'm  going  to  turn  plain  tourist  for  a 
month  or  so.  I'll  keep  you  informed  as  I  go  along.  And 
don't  worry." 

After  a  moment's  reflection  she  crossed  out  this  last  sen- 
jtenee.  "I  mustn't  put  the  suggestion  of  worry  into  moth- 
er's mind/'  she  thought.  "That  would  upset  her.  I'll 
keep  it  natural  and  offhand,  and  not  suggest  or  explain 

any  more  than  is  absolutely  necessary." 
i 

I  "Tell  Margie,"  thus  the  conclusion,  "I've  picked  up  for 
her  a  piece  of  the  loveliest  coppery  green  silk  she  ever  saw. 
She  can  feel  sure  there  won't  be  another  frock  like  it  in 
the  United  States — not  one !  It  will  be  wonderful  with  her 
hair. 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  stopped  coffee. 

"Lots  of  love.    More  news  later.  HILDA/' 

The  envelope  addressed,  sealed  and  stamped,  she  con- 
sulted the  little  traveler's  clock  that  stood  in  its  pigskin, 
case  by  the  inkwell.  The  hands  indicated  ten  minutes 
after  nine. 

She  got  up  and,  with"  knit  brows,  studied  the  vari-col- 
ored  assortment  of  frocks  and  suits  hanging  in  her  ward- 
robe trunk,  that  stood  open  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  If  it 
was  not  to  be  men's  clothes — which  would  be  absurdly  out 
of  the  question  anyway — it  had  better  be  something  as  in- 
conspicuous as  possible.  She  finally  selected  an  old  suit 
of  dark  serge  that  she  kept  for  stormy  weather  and  hard 
traveling.  On  her  rather  small  feet  she  drew  a  pair  of 


32  THE   HONEY   BEE 

plain  walking  boots  with  low  boyish  heels.  She  chose  a 
plain  black  hat,  soft  with  a  rolling  brim,  that  fitted  down 
close  about  her  head.  Furs  she  decided  against. 

Over  the  old  suit  she  put  on  a  heavy  gray  coat  of  home- 
spun, waterproofed.  Then  she  stood  before  the  long  mirror 
and  surveyed  herself.  Her  hat  brim  threw  her  eyes  into 
partial  shadow,  quite  hiding  those  faintly  wrinkled  half 
moons  under  them.  The  eyes  sparkled  at  her  from  the 
mirror,  and  she  found  herself  smiling  a  little.  "You  aren't 
so  old  I"  she  thought.  It  was  pleasing,  too,  to  think  that 
her  new  friend,  of  the  rough  but  real  accomplishments, 
would  find  her  roughly  but  well  equipped  for  whatever 
experience  it  might  be  necessary  to  meet.  There  was  even 
some  amusement  in  the  thought  of  passing  through  the 
imposing  lobby  of  the  hotel  in  this  costume. 

His  card  came  up  then.  As  she  took  it  from  the  boy 
and  looked  at  it,  she  smiled  again.  It  bore  the  name,  in 
email  black  letters,  "Albert  Moran."  Almost  unconsciously 
she  ran  her  thumb  over  the  letters.  Yes,  they  were  en- 
graved. She  was  still  smiling  as  she  drew  on  her  short 
gray  gloves  and  started  down-stairs. 

But  when  she  confronted  her  escort  of  the  evening  she 
was  caught  in  a  confusion  of  spirit  that,  if  momentary,  was 
complete.  He  rose  from  a  chair  and  came  forward  to  meet 
her,  clad  in  the  fullest  of  evening  dress — glistening  "patent 
leather"  shoes,  perfectly  creased  trousers,  pleated  shirt  of 
the  variety  known  in  the  men's  furnishing  department  as 
"semi  soft,"  neat  white  tie,  and  thatch  of  hair  brought  into 
a  temporary  subjection  by  means  of  many  brushings  and 
some  brilliantine.  His  long  black  overcoat  (not  the  sables 
this  eveniag)  was  shaped  to  the  outlines  of  his  wide  shoul- 
ders, his  curved  back,  his  almost  slim  waist.  His  tall  hat, 


THE   HONEY   BEE  35 

held  carefully  in  his  left  hand,  had  been  blocked  to  an 
unruffled  polish.  His  walking  stick,  suspended  from  this 
same  left  hand,  was  heavy  and  it  had  a  curving  handle 
tipped  with  silver — the  sort  of  stick  known  along  the  boule- 
vards as  a  "canne  Anglaise."  He  wore  one  white  glove, 
also  on  his  left  hand,  and  held  the  other  crushed  against  his 
hat  brim.  The  only  jewelry  in  evidence  was  his  watch 
chain  with  a  gold  sovereign  suspended  from  it. 

She  saw  that  he  was  holding  his  bare  right  hand  ready 
either  to  take  her  hand  or  not,  according  as  her  inclina- 
tion might  determine.  She  determined  to  extend  hers,  and 
did  so. 

Then  she  found  her  voice. 

"Oh !"  she  exclaimed.  "I  didn't  think— I  didn't  know—" 
'And  her  troubled  eyes  roved  from  his  resplendent  costume 
to  her  own  dingy  one.  "I  never  dreamed  of  dressing  up. 
I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  wait  while  I  put  on 
something  else." 

"Don't  bother,"  said  he.  "You  do  as  you  like  in  Paris. 
Nobody  minds."  He  did  not  smile.  As  all  during  the  aft- 
ernoon, he  was  grave,  respectful  and  distinctly  unper- 
turbed. 

"Would  there  be  time  ?"  she  asked. 

"Hardly,"  said  he. 

She  compressed  her  lips.  Then,  with  a  determined  little 
nod,  she  led  the  way  toward  the  door.  And  as  he  helped* 
her  into  a  taxi  and  seated  himself  beside  her  she  was  won- 
dering how  she  could  get  control  of  the  situation.  At  the 
moment  he  was  certainly  in  command.  His  very  unself- 
consciousness  as  he  sat  quietly  there,  his  willingness  to  be 
silent  and  to  concede  the  same  privilege  to  her,  perturbed 
her  the  more.  For  she  wanted  him  to  say  something.  She 


34  THE   HONEY   BEE 

wanted  the  chance  to  reassert  her  personality.  She  knew 
that  it  was  trivial  to  feel  like  this.  She  ought  to  rise  above 
it.  And  she  couldn't  rise  above  it.  So  she  bit  her  lip,  sit- 
ting motionless  there  in  the  dark. 

"That's  what  I  like  most  about  Paris,"  he  observed,  as 
they  crossed  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  with  its  hundreds 
upon  hundreds  of  soft  lights,  and  entered  the  shadowy 
reaches  of  the  Champs  Elysees.  "Everybody  does  what  they 
please.  They  all  drink,  you  know.  And  I  don't  drink. 
They  don't  care.  They  just  think  that's  my  peculiarity  and 
let  it  go  at  that.  It's  different  with  the  Americans  that 
turn  up.  They're  always  at  you  about  it.  They  keep  try- 
ing to  make  everybody  else  do  everything  they  do  them- 
selves." 

Hilda  said  something,  she  hardly  knew  what.  And  the 
conversation  drifted  on. 

Her  business  experience  had  been  thorough  and  varied 
enough  to  teach  her  that  personal  force,  the  intangible 
quality  that  is  known,  loosely,  as  "personality,"  is  found  in 
every  department  of  life.  She  had  observed  it  in  salesmen 
and  shipping  clerks,  in  errand  girls  and  bankers.  And  she 
could  perceive  that  this  man  with  the  slightly  crooked  nose 
and  the  curious  eyelid  and  the  remarkably  steady  eyes  had 
this  intangible  quality  in  an  extraordinary  degree.  His 
vocation  was  rough,  yes.  But  it  called  for  the  extreme  of 
self-control.  It  called  for  greater  self-control  indeed  than 
any  man  of  her  acquaintance — excepting  Joe  Hemstead, 
perhaps — was  capable  of  exercising.  And  it  must  of  course 
call  for  consummate  skill  and  address. 

She  recalled  how  he  had  looked,  earlier  in  the  day,  as  he 
walked  across  the  mail  room  at  the  American  Express,  and 
again  she  thought  of  tigers.  No  loose-minded,  self-indul- 


THE   HOKEY   BEE  35 

gent  man  (such  as  you  met,  mostly)  could  conceivably  look 
like  that.  And  it  was  plain,  from  his  gravity  and  his  reti- 
cence, from  his  very  silences,  that  this  moral  strength — 
yes,  you  would  have  to  call  it  that — was  by  no  means  the 
result  of  laborious  self-discipline;  it  was  simply  the  native 
quality  of  the  man. 

He  gave  her  some  odd  bits  of  information  regarding  the 
boxing  world  of  Paris.  "They  use  a  lot  of  our  words — 
'punch,'  'match/  'round/  'ring/  and  so  on.  And  the  verb 
'knockouter  '  to  knock  out." 

She  smiled  vaguely,  wondering  if  any  one  would  be 
"knocked  out"  this  evening;  and  wondering,  too,  how  she 
would  take  it  if  it  happened.  She  must  not  show  weak- 
ness; not  to  this  man. 

They  walked  in  through  the  plaster  and  iron  gateway 
of  the  amusement  park  among  a  crowd  of  eager,  jostling 
French  boys.  Some  of  these  looked  distinctly  rough ;  per- 
haps he  would  yet  prove  to  be  wrong  and  she  right  in  the 
matter  of  dress. 

But  when  they  entered  the  great  structure  of  steel  and 
glass,  with  its  overhead  decorations  of  flags  and  colored 
lights,  its  hundreds  of  rows  of  chairs,  nearly  all  occupied, 
and  its  elevated  square  "ring"  in  the  center  with  white 
ropes  enclosing  it  and  a  bunch  of  blazing  white  lights 
directly  above  it,  she  was  conscious,  confused  in  some  inex- 
tricable way  with  her  immense  relief  at  finding  herself  in 
so  cleanly  attractive  a  place,  of  a  sinking  of  heart. 

For  there  were  very  nearly  half  as  many  women  as  men 
among  the  several  thousand  spectators,  and  nearly  all  were 
in  bright  evening  costume.  Everywhere  one  looked  there  was 
the  spectacle  of  bare  white  necks  and  shoulders  outlined 
against  the  black  evening  coats  of  the  men.  The  occasional 


36  THE   HONEY  BEE 

vacant  chairs  were  piled  high  with  gay  opera  wraps  anS 
heaps  of  furs.  Here  and  there  groups  of  officers  supplied 
touches  of  red  cloth  and  the  glint  of  metal. 

Miss  Wilson,  following  a  girl  usher  down  the  long  aisle 
to  a  seat  only  three  rows  from  the  ringside,  felt  like  a  gray 
sparrow  among  birds  of  paradise. 


Ill 


TWO  PERSONS  OF  DISTINCT  PUBLIC  IMPORTANCE,  WITH  A 
MOMENT'S  IDLE  SPECULATION  AS  TO  WHICH  MIGHT  PROVE 
THE  BETTER  MAN,  SHOULD  THEY  MEET  IN  A  BUSINESS 

WAY 

A  MATCH  was  in  progress.  Two  big  men,  stripped  to 
short  trunks,  canvas  shoes,  and  padded  brown  gloves, 
with  red-brown  stains  on  them,  were  sparring  and  striking. 
Their  finely  trained  bodies  glistened  in  that  blazing  whits 
light.  She  could  hear  their  heavy  breathing,  and  the  soft 
pad-pad-pad  of  their  feet  on  the  canvas-covered  platform — • 
and  now  and  then  the  thud  of  a  cleanly  placed  blow. 

A  gong  ran.  The  men  turned  wearily  to  their  corners; 
and  numbers  of  attendants  in  white  clothing  scrambled  in 
through  the  ropes  with  buckets  and  bottles  and  stools  and 
sponges,  and  bath  towels  that  they  waved  frantically. 

Miss  Wilson  looked  about  at  the  audience.  Many  of  the 
women,  while  perhaps  a  bit  overdressed,  were  beautiful,  and 
seemed  not  unlike  the  women  one  saw  at  the  Opera  Co- 
mique.  The  men,  for  the  most  part,  appeared  to  be  average, 
well-to-do  Parisians,  with  well-trimmed  spade  beards  or 
carefully  groomed  mustaches.  So  far  they  were  quiet 
enough;  decorous,  even.  The  loud  talk  and  the  occasional 
shouting  came  from  the  crowded  rows  of  men  and  boys  in 
the  galleries. 

She  reflected,  as  had  so  many  thousands  of  Anglo-Saxon 
observers  before  her,  on  the  impersonal  quality  of  the  Pa- 

37 


38  THE   HONEY  BEE 

risian  and  the  Parisienne — on  their  extraordinary  openness 
to  facts  of  any  sort,  on  their  almost  complete  freedom  from 
prejudice,  moral  or  otherwise,  on  their  good-humored  atten- 
tion to  anything  that  was  for  any  reason  interesting.  That 
was  why  they  came  to  this  rough  spectacle ;  because  it  was 
interesting  to  them.  In  her  own  mind  she  was  apologizing 
for  being  here  at  all.  They  were  doing  nothing  of  the  sort. 
She  was  dependent  on  the  routine  of  her  habitual  environ- 
ment. At  this  very  moment  she  was  something  at  a  loss 
because  she  had,  with  such  travail  of  spirit,  brought  her- 
self to  cut  loose  from  that  environment.  Not  so  these  Pa- 
risians— they  acted  and  felt  here  exactly  as  they  would  act 
and  feel  anywhere  else.  And  while  she  listened  with  half 
an  ear  to  Moran's  occasional  quiet  remarks  and  replied  to 
them,  her  inner  mind  was  dwelling  on  that  keen  bit  of  ob- 
servation he  had  quoted — "It  isn't  that  they're  better  than 
us,  or  worse.  It's  only  that  their  safety  valve  is  set  lower." 

The  gong  rang,  and  the  fight  was  resumed.  She  watched 
it  with  more  assurance  than  at  first.  It  was  rough ;  but  she 
was  coming  to  see  that  it  offered  opportunities  for  quick- 
ness of  thought,  as  well  as  of  action,  and  really  unlimited 
openings  for  judgment  and  courage — for  character,  of  a 
sort. 

This  round  ended  the  bout.  Moran  explained  that  it 
was  the  last  of  the  regimental  championships,  and  added 
,  that  it  was  not  particularly  interesting.  "Those  boys  are 
only  the  best  of  a  lot  of  amateurs.  Third  raters." 

He  said  this  without  a  smile,  and  without  a  trace  of  con- 
descension ;  simply  stated  it  as  a  fact. 

She  replied,  gazing  thoughtfully  at  the  fat  announcer  in 
evening  clothes  who  was  reaching  down  through  the  ropea 
for  the  slips  of  paper  on  which  the  decisions  of  the  several 
judges  were  recorded — "It  isn't  so  hard  to  watch  as  I  feared. 


THE   HONEY   BEE  39 

I'm  not  sure  that  it  isn't  just  about  the  wholesomest  thing 
I've  ever  seen  in  Paris.  They  don't  seem  to  go  in  for  things 
so  direct  and  honest  as  boxing,  usually." 

He  flashed  a  blunt  glance  at  her,  then  looked  away. 
"There  are  worse  things  than  boxing,"  he  said,  simply  but 
with  an  unmistakable  touch  of  feeling — the  first  she  had 
eaught  in  him. 

The  next  match  was  what  he  termed  the  main  prelim- 
inary. A  blond  French  lightweight  against  a  Jewish  boy 
from  Philadelphia,  who  bore  the  name  of  Spider  O'dell. 
This  proved  to  be  quite  a  different  affair  from  the  preced- 
ing. "You'll  see  a  little  class  now,"  observed  her  escort ;  and 
within  a  very  few  moments  she  realized  what  he  meant. 
These  boxers  were  slim,  alert,  soft-skinned  and  nimble  as 
wood  sprites.  They  sparred,  feinted,  and  danced  about, 
exchanging  blows  so  rapidly  that  the  untrained  eye  could 
not  at  any  given  moment  follow  what  was  taking  place. 
They  studied  each  other  with  cool  eyes,  never  for  an  instant 
relaxing  from  a  high  nervous  tension  that  soon  transmitted 
itself  to  the  audience.  Men  and  women  alike  edged  for- 
ward on  their  chairs.  Waves  of  excitement  swept  the  gal- 
lery crowds  and  brought  them  repeatedly  to  their  feet. 
There  was  a  steady  patter  of  applause  and  shouts  and  cries 
that  rose  at  short  intervals  into  thunders  of  cheering. 

Round  by  round  the  two  youthful  masters  of  their  craft 
went  about  their  work — always  quick,  always  tense,  at  mo- 
ments breaking  out  into  whirlwinds  of  energy  that  were 
never  fevered,  never  anything' but  calculated;  and  that  yet 
were  carried  through  with  a  speed  of  execution  that  left 
one  breathless.  More  than  once  Hilda  found  herself  ap- 
plauding, during  those  moments  when  the  great  building 
was  rocking  with  the  clapping  of  thousands  of  hands,  the 
stamping  of  thousands  of  feet,  the  cheering  of  thousands 


40  THE   HONEY   BEE 

of  throats.  But  the  two  boys  went  on,  unheeding  of  every- 
thing outside  those  white  ropes,  as  if  there  was  nothing  in 
the  world  but  the  task  before  them. 

"Why,"  she  cried,  close  to  Moran's  ear,  "they're  positively 
businesslike  about  it!" 

"Of  course/'  he  replied.    "It  is  business !" 

The  match  was  to  go  ten  rounds.  In  the  seventh  it  be- 
came evident  that  the  Frenchman  was  tiring.  He  moved 
more  slowly;  heavily,  at  times.  More  and  more  frequently 
he  dodged  inside  a  blow  and  clung  close  to  the  Spider. 
Hilda  wondered  how  on  earth  he  ever  managed  to  do  it. 
It  was  odd,  too,  that  the  only  safe  place  for  him  in  that 
ring  should  be  close  to  his  opponent,  too  close  for  effective 
hitting. 

There  was  an  almost  steady  roar  now  from  all  parts  of 
the  house.  Once,  when  she  leaned  back  and  put  her  hands 
over  her  ears,  she  became  aware  that  Moran  was  studying 
her  with  a  trace  of  concern  on  his  face ;  so  she  dropped  her 
hands,  smiled,  and  sat  straight  up  again. 

Then  she  saw  something  that  brought  an  outright  laugh 
to  her  lips.  In  the  very  front  row,  near  the  corner  of  the 
ring,  sat  a  woman  of  at  least  sixty  or  sixty-five,  with  hair 
nearly  white  beneath  her  black  bonnet,  black  gown  adorned 
with  jet  ornaments,  and  face  that  Hilda  instantly  char- 
acterized as  "sweet,"  calmly  following  the  tide  of  battle 
through  an  ebony-handled  lorgnette.  She  called  Moran's 
attention  to  this,  and  he  smiled. 

One  fact  that  she  was  again  becoming  aware  of,  now  that 
her  mind  was  in  some  measure  adjusted  to  the  occasion, 
was  the  distinct  public  importance  of  her  escort.  If  he  had 
seemed  a  celebrity  at  the  tango  tea,  he  was  to-night,  in  this, 
his  own  world,  very  nearly  a  great  personage.  Spectators 
all  about  them,  in  the  lulls  between  rounds,  were  pointing 


THE    HONEY   BEE  41 

him  out.  And  the  rougher  men,  specimens  of  what  she 
was  beginning  to  recognize  as  the  boxing  type,  who  came 
and  went  about  the  ringside,  were  plainly  eager  to  speak 
to  him  and  elated  to  receive  a  nod  in  return. 

The  gong  announced  the  conclusion  of  the  tenth  round. 
The  Spider  was  acclaimed  vainqueur;  and  the  two  fight- 
ers muffled  in  bath  robes  and  each  followed  by  a  little  file 
of  managers,  handlers  and  admirers,  made  their  way  out 
through  the  crowd. 

Now  followed  a  bustle  of  confusion  about  the  ring. 
Blushing  eager  youths  of  various  sizes  from  the  French 
provinces,  from  England,  from  America,  from  Australia, 
climbed  into  the  ring  and  stood  in  awkward  attitudes  while 
the  fat  announcer  bellowed  out  formal  introductions.  Self- 
important  persons  rushed  about  among  the  press  tables, 
whispering  excitedly  to  this  man  and  that.  A  new  referee 
appeared,  an  Englishman;  his  sleeves  rolled  up  and  his 
soft  shirt  open  at  the  neck. 

Two  of  the  self-important  ones  came  over  and  urged 
Moran  to  get  up  into  the  ring  for  an  introduction.  But 
the  personage  merely  shook  his  head,  without  the  faintest 
appearance  of  interest  on  his  solid  face.  Arguments  were 
advanced,  only  to  be  met  by  that  same  pointblank  refusal. 

Hilda  felt  a  thousand  pairs  of  eyes  on  him  and  on  her- 
self. Never  in  her  life  had  she  felt  so  conspicuous. 

The  self-important  ones  finally  gave  it  up  and  went 
away.  Moran  called  her  attention  to  a  tall  young  man 
standing  at  the  ringside,  chatting  with  a  group  of  acquaint- 
ances. "Carpentier,"  he  said. 

<rWhy,"  she  murmured,  in  fresh  surprise,  'Tie's  very  good- 
looking  !" 

"Nice  fellow,"  responded  Moran. 

The  great  French  champion,  it  appeared,  had  recently 


42  THE   HONEY   BEE 

been  given  a  grant  of  money  by  the  government  for  uphold- 
ing the  honor  of  his  country  in  the  realms  of  sport.  "After 
he  knocked  Wells  out/'  Moran  added,  and  smiled  faintly. 
"Wells  keeps  on  getting  put  to  sleep,  but  it  doesn't  seem  to 
hurt  his  reputation  a  bit  in  England." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  him?"  she  asked,  glad  of  a 
chance  to  draw  out  her  escort  on  his  own  topic. 

"Clever  boxer,"  he  replied,  "but  he  has  what  the  news- 
paper boys  call  a  glass  jaw."  And  he  fell  silent  again. 

The  great  champion  turned  away  from  the  group  about 
him  and  looked  about  the  house.  The  gallery  boj^s  were 
shouting  so  lustily  at  him  that  he  finally  gave  them  a  smile 
and  a  nod.  Others  on  the  main  floor — even  the  bearded 
ones  in  evening  dress — were  calling  his  name;  and  for  a 
moment  he  could  only  bow  in  all  directions,  occasionally 
waving  his  hand  with  extraordinary  lightness  and  grace. 
Then  his  eyes  rested  on  the  silent  man  at  Hilda's  side ;  and 
his  young  fair  face  became  suddenly  illuminated.  He 
walked  straight  over  toward  them  with  hand  outstretched. 

Moran  rose  to  greet  him.  He  was  the  shorter,  a  trifle; 
but  stockier.  Hilda  could  not  help  reflecting,  as  she  stole 
a  glance  upward  at  the  two  great  men  of  this  outlandish 
world,  that  her  escort  was  the  solider  and  the  stronger.  Hia 
almost  stolid  reserve,  too,  was  pleasing  to  her  beside  the 
frankly  Gallic  effusiveness  of  the  champion.  "Probably  he 
is  not  so  quick,"  she  thought,  herself  now  almost  a  part  of 
this  picturesque  environment;  "but  somewhere  in  him  he 
must  have  some  of  that  fire  and  go  I've  seen  to-night.  A 
man  could  hardly  get  to  be  as  prominent  as  he  is  without 
earning  the  position  some  way."  She  even  yielded  to  the 
notion  that  now,  having  come  to  know  him  a  little,  and  hav- 
ing learned  what  this  business  of  boxing  is  like,  it  would  be 
interesting  to  see  him  in  action.  "If  he  does  meet  Carpen- 


THE   HONEY  BEE  43 

tier,  I'll  make  some  one  bring  me  to  see  it,"  she  decided 
then  and  there.  "That  is,  if  I'm  in  Paris." 

A  puzzling  element  in  the  situation  was  the  friendly  re- 
lationship that  plainly  existed  between  the  two  fighters. 
.  Though  it  occurred  to  her  that  their  very  prominence  would 
naturally  draw  them  together.  "Men  at  the  top  of  any 
profession  get  lonely,"  she  reflected.  "They  can't  really 
chum  with  their  subordinates  and  followers.  It's  got  to  be 
some  one  else  who's  at  the  top.  And  then  of  course  it  is 
a  business."  Indeed,  she  knew  from  her  own  experience 
how  one  comes  to  admire  and  even  feel  a  sort  of  affection 
for  a  business  rival  who  is  vigorous  and  aggressive  enough 
to  stir  one  and  bring  out  one's  own  stronger  qualities. 

Moran  turned  now,  and  with  a  trace  of  shyness  intro- 
duced the  Frenchman;  and  she  found  herself  clasping  his 
firm  big  hand.  He  spoke  English  to  her. 

There  was  a  new  commotion  about  the  ring,  and  new 
cheering  from  the  galleries.  Groups  of  men  were  pushing 
in  through  the  crowded  aisles. 

A  huge  barrel  of  a  man,  an  Englishman,  stepped  up  into 
the  ring  and  seated  himself  on  one  of  the  stools.  He  wore 
a  coat  about  his  shoulders. 

There  was  another  commotion,  and  a  genuine  uproar 
from  the  crowd.  A  high-shouldered,  round-headed  negro 
appeared  in  the  corner  opposite  the  Englishman.  He  threw 
off  his  bath  robe,  and  stood  grinning  there,  a  great  stocky 
'fighting  machine,  all  muscle,  his  skin  reflecting  the  light 
like  polished  mahogany. 

There  was  a  flutter  of  discussion  and  confusion.  The 
self-important  were  about  the  ring  in  swarms.  Bandaged 
hands  were  examined  by  critical  eyes.  The  gloves  were  ad- 
justed. Then,  one  by  one,  the  self-important  dropped 
down  between  the  ropes,  until  only  the  white  man,  the 


M 

black  man  and  the  referee  were  left.  The  gong  clanged. 
A  dramatic  hush  settled  over  the  great  audience. 

The  two  men  stepped  to  mid-ring,  touched  hands  in  a 
perfunctory  greeting,  and  squared  off.  They  circled  once, 
slowly.  The  negro  threw  out  his  open  left  hand  in  a  quick 
feint,  then  brought  his  right  fist  forward  and  downward  in 
a  short  choppy  blow  that  terminated  on  the  chin  of  his  op- 
ponent. 

The  Englishman  sank  to  his  knees,  then  dropped  forward 
on  his  hands.  His  head  sagged  clear  to  the  canvas  and 
rested  there ;  and  he  pivoted  around  it  in  a  floundering  cir- 
cle while  the  referee  stood  over  him,  deliberately  counting 
him  out.  Then  the  handlers  rushed  into  the  ring  and  half 
carried,  half  dragged  him  to  his  corner.  The  negro  was 
already  putting  on  his  bath  robe,  his  evening's  work  done. 

Hilda,  sitting  rigid  on  the  extreme  edge  of  her  chair,  her 
eyes  staring,  her  face  chalk  white,  was  only  dimly  conscious 
of  the  tremendous  angry  roar  that  shook  the  building.  The 
thing  had  literally  taken  her  breath  away. 

Moran  had  risen  and  was  bending  over  her.  "Come,"  he 
said,  "let's  get  out.  That's  all.  And  the  crowd  is  mad !" 

He  took  her  arm  and  hurried  out  the  long  aisle  between 
solid  ranks  of  screaming,  gesticulating  men  and  women. 
At  the  outer  door  she  stopped  and  leaned  against  the  wall 
to  get  her  breath. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked.    "Why  are  they  so  angry?" 

"Oh,  these  people  charged  big  prices  to-night — announced 
it  as  a  championship  match.  And  there's  nothing  to  it, 
you  see.  He  just  hit  him  once.  They  are  calling  it  a  frame- 
up.  They  want  their  money  back." 

Then  they  were  out  in  the  night  air.  She  was  limp  with 
fatigue,  but  nervously  alight  with  excitement. 

He  hailed  a  taxi,  and  handed  her  in ;  then  hesitated. 


THE   HONEY  BEE  45 

"Maybe  you'd  like  a  bite  to  eat  somewhere  before  you  go 
home,"  he  suggested,  as  if  uncertain  what  would  be  best. 

"Oh,  yes/*  she  said  quickly — "anywhere !  Anything.  I 
can't  stop  now."  When  he  still  hesitated,  she  suggested 
Lavenue's.  So  they  skimmed  back  through  the  cool  night, 
down  the  Champs  Elysees,  over  the  river,  and  through  dim 
streets  to  the  brightly  lighted  old  restaurant  that  was  essay- 
ing bravely  to  dispel  the  gloomy  shadows  of  the  great  Mont- 
parnasse  Station  across  the  little  square. 


HER  TRADITIONAL  ABHORRENCE  OF  A  VACUUM,  HAS  AL- 
READY ACTED  IN  THE  MATTER  OF  HILDA 

L AVENUE'S  was  warm.  Food  and  music  were  good. 
In  the  upholstered  corners  of  the  inner  restaurant, 
one  hardly  heard  the  noisy  chatter  of  the  crowded  cafe  be- 
yond the  front  partition.  The  food  and  the  sip  of  wine 
steadied  Hilda,  and  the  music  soothed  her  spirit. 

She  was  beginning  to  feel  comfortable  now  with  the  re- 
doubtable Moran.  Almost  always  men  were  more  or  less 
subtly  aggressive  with  her,  to  so  great  an  extent  that  she 
kept  on  her  guard  with  them  as  a  matter  of  course  and  all 
the  time.  But  this  man  was  not  aggressive  at  all.  It 
piqued  her  that  he  was  not.  He  drank  none  of  the  wine, 
but  expanding  gradually  in  this  warm  atmosphere  of  physi- 
cal well  being,  became  more  talkative. 

In  response  to  her  shrewd  questions,  he  told  her  much 
about  the  boxing  business — the  sort  of  boys  that  are  at- 
tracted to  it,  the  exacting  nature  of  the  work,  relations  be- 
tween boxers  and  their  managers,  ultimate  money  rewards. 
Her  quick  grasp  on  the  practical  side  of  it  appealed  to  him ; 
until  finally  she  knew  that  he  was  talking  to  her  as  directly 
and  frankly  as  he  would  have  talked  to  a  man.  He  even 
voiced  his  surprise,  saying — 

"I  never  met  a  lady  before  that  I  could  talk  to  this  way/* 

"So  ?"  she  remarked,  smiling  a  little,  and  looking  off  at 

46 


THE   HONEY   BEE  47 

tHe  violinist,  who  was  so  amusingly  like  a  well-fed  young 
Beethoven.  "I'm  a  business  woman,  you  see." 

"But  the  business  women  I've  seen  couldn't  ask  intelli- 
gent questions  about  the  boxing  game.  They  weren't  inter- 
.  ested." 

Hilda's  smile  faded,  slowly.  She  lowered  her  eyes,  and 
thoughtfully  turned  a  salt  shaker  round  and  round  between 
her  slim  fingers. 

"I  worked  for  a  very  big  man  once,"  she  said  then,  so- 
berly. "It  was  my  first  job.  His  name  was  Harris  Doreyn 
— The  Doreyn  Company,  in  Chicago.  If  I  know  anything 
I  learned  it  from  him.  And  one  thing  he  impressed  upon 
me  above  everything  else  was  that  I  must  always  keep  my 
mind  open  to  new  facts — no  matter  what." 

He  thought  this  over,  deliberately,  with  knit  brows.  She 
covertly  watched  him  as  he  worked  it  out,  and  then  nodded. 
He  was  not  a  rapid  thinker.  But  she  felt  that  he  would  be 
thorough. 

"I  take  it  you're  a  success  in  business,"  said  he,  a  little 
later. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  replied,  "I  suppose  you  would  have  to  call 
me  a  success." 

"And  you've  made  good  young." 

"Young  ?"  A  faint  smile,  that  had  in  it  something  akin  to 
"bitterness,  curled  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  "My  dear 
man,  I'm  a  thousand  years  old." 

He  frankly  didn't  understand  this.  So  she  changed  the 
subject. 

"Listen,"  she  said,  "what  on  earth  are  those  crazy  chil- 
dren doing  with  a  baby  ?" 

He  visibly  collected  his  thoughts.  "Oh,"  he  replied  then, 
"that's  a  queer  story,  too.  We've  only  had  it  since  mom- 
ing." 


48  THE   HONEY   BEE 

"You  don't  mean  that  it  is  less  than  a  day  old  ?" 

"Oh,  no.    About  two  months." 

"And  they  were  giving  it  paregoric  V  she  mused,  aloud. 
Then,  "Where's  its  mother?" 

"In  the  hospital  at  Auteuil.  She's  a  girl  that  was  danc- 
ing at  the  Parnasse." 

"Where's  the  father,  then?" 

Moran  hesitated,  then  said — "He  died  last  week.  It's 
been  very  hard  on  Juliette — not  like  most  of  these  Paris 
cases.  He  was  really  in  love  with  her.  They  were  to  have 
been  married  this  week.  Pretty  decent  of  him,  too,  the 
way  these  French  people  look  at  things.  You  see,  she 
couldn't  bring  him  anything — she  had  no  dot.  His  death 
broke  her  all  up.  She's  been  walking  around  with  a  fever, 
and  last  night  she  went  to  pieces." 

She  liked  him  for  his  simple  way  of  telling  the  pitiful 
little  story.  Then  she  fell  to  thinking  of  the  baby. 

"Is  it  a  boy  or  a  girl  ?"  she  asked. 

"Girl,"  said  he. 

"What  do  those  chorus  girls  know  about  babies?" 

"Not  very  much." 

"They're  such  helpless  little  things !" 

He  made  no  reply,  and  for  a  little  time  they  were  silent. 
The  well-fed  young  Beethoven  was  playing  the  hackneyed 
but  haunting  Humoresque,  of  Dvorak,  with  muted  strings. 
Hilda  felt  rather  than  heard  the  plaintive  melody.  Her 
thoughts  were  on  babies — plump  little  soft-skinned  crea- 
tures, with  fat  legs  and  dimpled  knees. 

"I  helped  bring  up  my  young  sister  and  brother,"  said 
she,  speaking  as  much  to  the  salt  shaker  as  to  him.  He 
inclined  his  head.  "So  much  depends  on  taking  just  the 
right  care  of  them." 

They  were  silent  again. 


THE    HONEY   BEE  49 

"Listen,"  said  she.  "How  are  they  managing  to-night? 
Aren't  all  those  girls  busy  at  the  Parnasse  ?" 

"Yes,  they're  working.  But  one  of  the  hotel  maids  is 
staying  around." 

"That  isn't  right,"  said  Hilda.  "You  can't  just  leave 
a  baby  with  anybody." 

"What  are  you  going'  to  do  ?"  said  he.  "There's  the  way 
it  is." 

"And  it  has  colic." 

"Nothing  serious,  the  doctor  said." 

"But  don't  you  see,  everything  depends  on  the  feeding. 
You  can't  do  it  offhand.  I  know  babies,  and  you  can't. 
How  often  do  they  feed  it  ?  At  regular  times  ?" 

"Oh,  no.    When  it  cries,  mostly." 

"Do  they  measure  the  amounts  ?" 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  I  don't  think  so."  A  mo- 
ment later  he  said,  bluntly,  "You  wouldn't  want  to  come 
around  and  look  things  over,  would  you  ?" 

"Look  things  over  ?    How  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Why,  I'll  tell  you" —  he  was  a  thought  embarrassed 
now — "I  don't  think  myself  that  baby's  going  to  get  the 
right  kind  of  care  in  that  crowd.  And  it's  serious,  you 
know." 

"Yes,"  said  she,  thoughtfully,  "it  is  serious." 

"That's  what  I  said  to  myself  to-night.  I've  never  been 
i  so  close  to  a  baby  as  this.  And  it  struck  me — This  little 
thing's  alive.'  And,  like  you  said,  it's  helpless.  Seems  to 
me  it  ought  to  be  kept  quiet  and  fed  real  carefully.  Those 
girls  are  crazy,  you  know.  They  keep  grabbing  it  up,  and 
cuddling  it,  and  righting  over  it.  I  told  them  they'd  excite 
it  too  much.  And  Blondie  gave  it  some  candy." 

Hilda  sat  straight  up  and  turned  her  eyes  full  op  his. 
"Good  heavens !"  she  cried.  "That's  awful !" 


BO  THE   HONEY  BEE 

"That's  what  I  thought,"  said  he.  "I  got  the  candy  out 
of  its  mouth  with  my  finger.  Of  course,  I  know  you 
couldn't  give  much  time  to  it,  but  if  you  would  come 
around  to-morrow  and  sort  of  look  things  over  .  .  ." 

She  was  pursing  her  lips,  and  turning  the  salt  shaker 
round  and  round,  very  slowly. 

"I'll  come,"  she  said.  And  added,  in  a  low  t©ne,  "I've 
got  time  enough  for  that — or  something." 

It  occurred  to  Hilda  that  night,  in  a  sleepless  interval 
between  efforts  to  fix  her  mind  on  the  novel  that  lay 
propped  on  her  knees,  that  the  really  sensible  thing  would 
have  been  to  go  directly  to  that  baby  and  take  charge.  It 
would  have  been  easy  enough  to  arrange.  Moran,  the  four 
American  dancers,  and  several  of  the  English  chorus  girls 
were  staying  at  a  little  "American  plan"  hotel  in  the 
crowded  district  behind  the  Madeleine.  She  could  have  got 
a  room  there  for  herself  and  taken  the  baby  right  in  with 
her  for  the  night. 

Still,  there  was  the  practical  side  of  the  situation  to  con- 
sider. She  knew,  for  one  thing,  that  she  was  dreadfully 
tired.  All  night  the  back  of  her  head  ached.  And  con- 
fused mental  images  of  sweaty,  nearly  naked  men  in  short 
trunks  and  blood-stained  boxing  gloves  came  and  went  in 
her  mind  until  she  could  have  got  up,  dressed,  and,  in  sheer 
desperation,  tramped  about  the  streets.  At  moments,  she 
even  thought  seriously  of  doing  this,  feeling  that  it  might 
so  exhaust  her  as  to  make  sleep  possible.  But  these  impulses 
were  always  followed  by  the  more  sober  reflection  that  the 
last  thing  on  earth  she  could  do  would  be  to  tramp  about 
Paris,  alone,  in  the  small  hours  of  morning.  She  was  not 
even  certain  that  had  the  matter  been  presented  to  her  for 
a  decision,  she  could  have  brought  herself  to  go,  late  at 
night  with  her  new  and  grotesquely  fascinating  friend  to  his 


51 

little  theatrical  hotel,  even  for  the  purpose  of  caring  for 
that  pathetically  homeless  and  helpless  baby. 

For  Hilda  Wilson's  was  by  no  means  an  unconventional 
nature.  If  she  was  stirring  with  resentments  and  incipient 
rebellions,  these  were  quite  vague  in  her  mind.  They  did 
stir  her.  They  had,  it  appeared,  worn  her  nerves  danger- 
ously close  to  the  breaking  point.  They  had  got  her  into 
her  present  difficulty,  making  it  necessary  for  her  to  give 
up  her  strong  positive  hold  on  life,  her  work.  But  they 
meant  nothing  more  to  her  consciousness  than  an  acutely 
personal  problem. 

The  trouble  was,  doubtless,  that  with  the  job  gone,  ther« 
were  no  other  interests  in  her  life  to  takes  its  place.  Nothing 
that  she  could  lay  hold  on.  And  the  job,  for  the  present, 
was  certainly  gone.  She  could  not  reconsider  after  sending 
that  cablegram  to  Joe  Hemstead.  He  had  never  yet  seen 
outright  indecision  in  her,  even  in  small  matters.  .  .  . 
She  could  not  reconsider,  anyway.  For  she  was  in  no  con- 
dition to  carry  the  job. 

No,  a  rest  was  indicated.  But  how  on  earth  was  she  to 
get  it?  As  she  considered  the  difficulties  that  beset  a 
youngish  and  distinctively  attractive  woman  who  may  ven- 
ture to  travel  aimlessly  and  unescorted  about  Europe,  bitter 
feelings  arose  within  her.  It  was  difficult  enough  to  man- 
age, even  with  the  job  to  steady  one. 

The  fact  appeared  to  be  that  she  couldn't  rest.  The 
most  she  could  hope  to  do  would  be  to  substitute  some  other 
positive  interest  for  the  job.  If  she  could  really  manage 
this,  it  might  work  out  as  an  equivalent  to  a  rest.  Or  it 
might  not. 

She  tried  again  to  follow  her  novel.  But  never  much 
of  a  reader,  she  felt  the  want  of  a  reading  habit  to  aid  her 
in  fixing  her  attention  on  the  manufactured  characters  of 


52  THE   HONEY   BEE 

the  story.  There  suddenly  flashed  into  her  mind  the  prob- 
lem of  Annie  Haggerty,  the  bundle  wrapper  in  her  depart- 
ment, who  had  "gone  wrong."  She  had  very  properly  re- 
garded Annie  as  a  demoralizing  influence,  and  had  urged 
strongly  that  she  be  dismissed.  But  Mr.  Martin,  backed 
as  usual  by  Joe  Hemstead,  had  pleaded  for  the  girl.  They 
were  keeping  her  there  now.  She  must  talk  with  May  Is- 
bell  about  that.  "Welfare  work"  was  all  right  enough — a 
good  thing,  indeed — but  there  were  practical  limits.  Then 
she  fell  to  thinking  again  of  tiger-like  men,  shining  with 
sweat,  who  tore  savagely  at  each  other.  .  .  . 

Many  times  during  the  night  she  came  to  the  definite 
decision  that  she  would  keep  away  from  Moran  and  his 
dancing  and  singing  acquaintances;  that  she  would  even 
keep  away  from  the  baby,  whose  story  had  touched  deep 
warm  places  within  her.  She  thought,  in  swift  flashes,  of 
difficulties  that  would  arise.  It  was  erratic.  It  would  be 
hard  to  explain.  No,  better  an  irresponsible  journey. 

But  in  the  morning  she  did  precisely  what  she  had  told 
Blink  Moran  she  would  do — went  to  the  little  "American 
plan"  theatrical  hotel  back  of  the  Madeleine.  She  even  went 
earlier  than  she  had  intended. 

It  was  of  no  particular  use  to  think  about  substituting 
some  other  positive  interest  for  the  job.  That  matter  had 
been  taken  out  of  her  hands  on  the  preceding  afternoon 
when  she  went  to  a  "the  tango"  in  a  taxi  with  a  well- 
dressed,  dignified  prize-fighter  and  a  badly  dressed  dancing 
girl  with  cow  eyes.  And  she  had  seen  rough  men  in  an 
activity  which  was,  it  appeared,  a  business,  and  which  had 
proved,  as  an  experience,  unexpectedly  and  intensely  vital. 
Indeed,  as  she  hurried  through  her  breakfast  and  ordered 
a  cab,  it  seemed  to  her  that,  underlying  the  confusions  of 
that  nearly  sleepless  night,  the  intention  to  do  precisely 


THE   HONEY   BEE  53 

this  thing  had  never  for  an  instant  wavered.  If  she  gave 
virtually  no  thought  as  to  wliere  this  course  might  lead  her, 
it  was  because  she  had  already  accepted  it. 

The  rooms  at  the  Hotel  de  1'Amerique — for  such  it  was 
called — were  not  large,  but  they  were  reasonably  clean. 
>Hilda  found  the  baby  sleeping  restlessly  on  a  cot  in  the 
room  occupied  by  Millicent  and  Blondie.  The  window  was 
closed  tight,  and  the  air  was  heavy.  The  two  girls  were 
there,  Blondie  in  bed,  dozing  heavily,  with  the  remains  of 
a  petit  dejeuner  on  a  chair  at  her  elbow;  Millicent,  in  a 
somewhat  ragged  negligee,  was  brushing  her  teeth.  Adele, 
who  brought  Hilda  in,  was  dressed  for  the  day.  She  looked 
white  and  tired. 

Hilda  and  Adele  stood  by  the  cot,  looking  down  at  the 
new  little  human  being. 

"It  isn't  very  fat,"  whispered  Hilda. 

"Not  very,"  said  Adele,  ruefully. 

The  baby's  eyelids  opened  and  the  eyes  rolled,  exposing 
the  whites;  then  the  lids  closed  again.  The  corners  of  its 
little  mouth  curved  upward.  The  lips  were  none  too  red. 

"That's  colic,"  observed  Hilda.    "No  mistake  about  it." 

"I'm  afraid  so,"  replied  Adele. 

Hilda  looked  at  the  rumpled  hair  and  sleep-flushed  com- 
plexion of  the  girl  in  the  bed,  and  at  the  muss  of  breakfast 
things  on  the  tray.  She  took  in  again  the  torn  negligee  of 
Millicent,  who  was  now  using  a  towel  vigorously.  She  con- 
sidered the  litter  of  clothing  and  newspapers  on  the  chairs 
and  the  floor.  For  a  moment  she  stared  thoughtfully  out 
the  window  at  a  nest  of  chimney  pots.  "I've  certainly  got 
to  do  something,"  she  thought.  "I  can't  just  loaf.  Never 
in  the  world. 

"See  here,"  she  said,  "I'm  going  to  move  in  here  and 
take  care  of  this  baby  myself.  Probably  I  can  get  a  room." 


54  THE   HONEY   BEE 

"Oh — will  you !"  breathed  Adele,  with  suddenly  shining 
eyes  and  a  tremulous  smile.  "I've  worried  so.  It  would 
be  such  a  help !" 

Accordingly  Hilda  engaged  a  room  on  the  same  floor. 
By  early  afternoon  she  had  packed  her  wardrobe  trunk  and 
removed  it  from  the  big  hotel  on  the  Eue  de  Eivoli.  She 
decided  to  keep  her  room  there  for  the  present.  Otherwise 
May  Isbell  would  wonder;  and  the  men  of  Armandeville 
et  Cie. 

Before  evening  a  baby's  sleeping  basket,  decorated  with 
pink  ribbons,  had  been  delivered  at  the  Hotel  de  I'Anler* 
ique;  and  an  alcohol  lamp,  and  a  dozen  graduated  feeding 
bottles,  and  tins  of  food  preparations;  and  many  bundles 
of  white  clothing.  Also  a  clinical  thermometer  and  other 
small  parcels  from  the  drug  store.  Blue  and  white  porce- 
lain bottles  of  very  costly  milk  came  from  the  laiterie  in 
the  Eue  des  Mathurins.  And  a  book  on  the  care  of  infants 
from  the  American  book  store. 

At  all  which  signs  of  personal  authority  and  organizing 
ability,  Adele  and  Millicent  looked  with  frank  and  com- 
plete admiration.  Blondie  said  it  was  kind  of  the  lady. 


BLINK  MOEAN  ON  DIET  AND  THE  HUMAN  MACHINE,  ALSO  ON 
THE  HONEY  BEE.     AND  A  FAINT  ANALOGY 

IT  WAS  nearly  six  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  Hilda 
responded  to  a  tap  at  her  door  with  a  low-spoken, 
"Come  in  I" 

At  the  moment  the  baby  was  engaged  in  sucking  the 
two  middle  fingers  of  her  right  hand  and  staring  up  at 
the  snowy  curtains  of  the  basket  that  now  constituted  her 
little  world.  She  had  been  objecting  to  this  little  world, 
only  a  few  moments  earlier,  with  a  violence  that  opened 
her  mouth  wide  and  changed  her  color  through  the  various 
shades  of  red  and  purple  to  something  near  navy  blue.  In 
another  few  moments,  if  the  average  experience  of  this  ex- 
traordinary afternoon  might  be  accepted  as  a  reasonable 
basis  for  prediction,  she  would  object  again.  At  present 
she  was  calm. 

The  door  opened  softly,  and  Blink  Moran  tiptoed  in. 
Hilda  smiled.  She  was  glad  to  see  him.  If  the  way  these 
dancing  and  prize-fighting  persons  plainly  had  of  visiting 
one  another's  rooms  at  all  hours  and  in  various  casual 
degrees  of  negligee  did  seem  more  extremely  unconventional 
than  any  mode  of  life  that  she  had  hitherto  known,  at  least 
they  were  all  quite  wholesomely  unconscious  of  it.  The 
obvious  thing  to  do,  since  she  had  intruded  herself  into 
this  odd  atmosphere,  was  to  accept  it.  This,  with  an  occa- 
sional recurrence  of  the  queer  sensation  of  unreality  that 

55 


56  THE   HONEY   BEE 

had  first  risen  within  her  on  the  preceding  day,  she  was 
now  endeavoring  to  do.  Moran,  at  least,  was  always  fully 
dressed  when  she  saw  him. 

"Everything  all  right?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded,  still  smiling.  "Come  and  look,"  she  said. 
Adding,  "You  needn't  be  so  terribly  quiet.  She's  awake." 

He  stood  by  her,  looking  down  at  the  wholly  unreasonable 
but  definitely  individualized  bit  of  humanity  in  the  basket. 

"Funny  little  thing,"  he  mused  soberly.  "I  suppose  we 
all  looked  like  that  once." 

Hilda  laughed  softly,  and  nodded  toward  a  chair.  SKe 
herself  dropped  to  the  stool  that  she  had  placed  beside  the 
basket. 

Moran  glanced  at  her,  thoughtfully.  She  was  dressed 
in  a  simple  white  shirt-waist  and  dark  skirt.  Her  chest- 
nut hair  was  done  up  about  her  head  in  a  way  that,  while 
simple,  emphasized  its  abundance.  She  still  looked  tired; 
but  there  was  a  rather  firm  set  to  her  mouth,  and  her  eyes 
were  steady.  He  thought  of  these  eyes  now,  really  for  the 
first  time.  They  were  gray-blue  in  color;  and  you  re- 
membered them.  He  knew  that  he  would  remember  them. 
Yesterday  and  last  evening,  at  the  Parnasse  and  the  box- 
ing match  and  Lavenue's,  she  had  not  looked  like  this.  He 
could  not  say  what  the  difference  was,  but  certainly  she 
now  appeared  surer  of  herself.  She  had  told  him  that  she 
was  a  business  woman.  He  now  decided  that  she  was  a 
capable  one.  She  had  a  book  in  her  hand,  and  was  mark- 
ing a  place  with  a  slim  finger. 

She  caught  him  looking  curiously  at  the  volume,  and 
held  it  up.  "The  baby  book,"  she  explained.  "I'm  study- 
ing  it." 

"Oh,"  said  he.  "But  you  told  me  last  night  that  you 
knew  about  babies." 


THE   HONEY  BEE  57 

"I  helped  bring  up  two,"  she  replied.  "But  that  was  a 
good  while  ago."  Her  face  sobered.  "You  don't  remem- 
ber all  the  things  you  pick  up  at  such  a  time — medical 
knowledge,  and  all  that.  A  baby's  a  job,  you  know ;  a  very 
definite  job.  And  every  baby's  different.  You've  got  to 
etudy  your  baby.  And  you  can't  make  mistakes.  You 
can't,  you  know.  So  the  only  thing  to  do  is  the  right 
thing,  every  time." 

He  thought  this  over  during  a  long  moment ;  then  slowl j 
nodded.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "I  suppose  that's  so.  I  never 
thought  of  it." 

She  opened  the  book  and  turned  the  pages  reflectively. 
"No,"  she  repeated,  "it's  no  good  making  mistakes  with 
babies.  And  you  can't  bank  on  what  you  only  think  you 
know — things  you  half  remember,  opinions  and  such.  I 
worked  for  a  big  man  once,  Harris  Doreyn,  of  Chicago," — 
she  checked  herself,  glanced  swiftly  up,  then  looked  down 
again  at  the  book — "oh,  I  told  you  about  him  last  night. 
He  used  to  say,  'Your  opinions  are  no  better  than  your 
information.  Let's  have  your  information.'  I  thought  of 
that  this  morning,  and  so  I'm  getting  up  my  information 
about  babies." 

He  rose  and  stood  looking  at  the  prettily  arranged  basket 
while  thinking  about  the  woman  there  on  the  low  seat  be- 
side it.  He  had  never  known  quite  such  a  woman.  He 
didn't  see  why  she  should  come  in  here  and  take  hold  in  this 
fine  way ;  but  he  did  see  that  the  baby  had  brought  her  to 
life  astonishingly.  "But  then,  babies  do  take  hold  of 
•women,"  he  thought.  "That's  natural.  It's  their  game." 

"I'm  going  over  by  the  American  Express,"  he  said; 
"shall  I  ask  for  your  mail?" 

"Thank  you,"  said  she.    "If  you  don't  mind." 

Then  he  left;  forgetting  that  he  needn't  be  so  terribly 


58  THE   HONEY   BEE 

quiet;  tiptoeing  out  and  closing  the  door  with  great  care. 
Hilda  watched  him  as  he  closed  the  door.  Never  in  her 
life  had  she  seen  so  big  a  man  move  with  such  lightness. 

He  was  back  in  less  than  an  hour  with  her  letters ;  chat- 
ting for  a  moment,  then  going  along.  These  had  little  in- 
terest for  her.  They  were  but  fluttering  bits  of  paper  from 
a  remote  life  in  a  remote  land.  Several  times  while  she 
glanced  hastily  through  them  the  baby's  whimperings  drew 
her  attention.  There  was  a  cable  from  Joe  Hemstead  that 
called  for  a  moment's  thought.  She  mentally  built  out  the 
gaps  between  the  words.  Stanley  Aitcheson,  it  appeared, 
had  left  the  Hartman  store  a  week  earlier.  "That  must 
have  been  just  after  Mr.  Hemstead  wrote  the  letter  that 
came  yesterday,"  she  mused,  with  half  a  frown.  But  it  had 
only  this  day  become  clear  that  he  had  sailed  for  Cher- 
bourg. His  father  was  worried;  and  J.  H.  was  cabling 
Armandeville's  to  look  after  him  and  send  him  back  if 
possible. 

This  was  awkward.  She  thought  it  over  while  smooth- 
ing out  the  bedding  under  the  restless  baby,  and  draping  a 
steamer  rug  over  a  chair-back  to  shield  the  little  eyes  from: 
the  light.  She  knelt  for  a  time  beside  the  basket  and 
studied  the  tiny  head  as  it  lay  quiet  for  the  moment,  on 
the  muslin-covered  mattress.  The  nose  was  a  mere  button, 
as  baby  noses  should  be.  The  eyes,  she  thought,  were  going 
to  be  brown.  She  would  have  preferred  blue.  The  little 
cheeks  were  none  too  plump.  Very  well — she  would  see 
to  that.  And  the  knees,  she  knew,  down  there  under  the 
warm  little  puff,  were  hardly  what  you  would  call  dimpled. 
But  that,  she  considered,  could  be  managed.  A  baby,  as 
she  had  told  Moran,  is  a  job.  It  would  be  a  matter  of  ex- 
perimenting with  various  foods  until  they  could  work  out 


''Babies  do  take  hold  of  women,"  he  thought. 
"That's  natural.    It's  their  game." 


THE   HONEY   BEE  59 

the  precisely  right  mixture  for  the  delicate  little  body  to 
digest  and  assimilate  with  the  minimum  of  effort.  They  had 
had  to  work  out  a  similar  problem  with  her  brother  Harry ; 
and  that  was  years  back,  before  the  modern  understanding 
of  baby  problems  had  been  arrived  at. 

It  was  rather  surprising,  even  to  herself,  that  she  should 
take  such  a  deep  enjoyment  in  the  detail  of  ministering  to 
this  helpless  little  person — after  all  these  years  of  giving 
her  attention  and  her  strength  to  a  very  different  sort  of 
thing.  One  small  hand  lay  outside  the  puff.  She  took  it 
gently  in  her  own.  It  was  pitifully  thin.  There  ought  to 
be  dimples  here,  as  on  the  knees — one  dimple  for  each  tiny 
knuckle.  She  looked  again  at  the  round  little  head.  It 
was  a  dark  baby,  with  almost  black  hair.  She  wished  it 
were  light.  She  liked  blue  eyes  and  bald  heads  covered 
with  soft  fuzz. 

The  baby  whimpered,  caught  its  breath,  opened  its  mouth 
and  set  out  into  an  exhibition  of  an  astonishingly  strong 
equipment  of  lungs.  Hilda  patted  the  wriggling  body,  and 
spoke  soothingly.  The  little  face  deepened  in  color  and 
wrinkled.  The  noise  grew  in  volume. 

Hilda  looked  about  her,  in  momentary  helplessness.  "It 
isn't  feeding  time,"  she  thought — "not  for  half  an  hour. 
And  the  book  says  not  to  pick  it  up." 

But  soothing  words  had  no  effect.  Neither  did  the  pick- 
ing, up  process,  when  Hilda  weakened.  She  replaced  her 
little  charge  in  the  basket,  lighted  the  alcohol  lamp  and  set 
a  pail  of  water  over  it,  and  placed  a  bottle  in  the  water. 
The  neck  of  the  bottle  was  carefully  closed  with  absorbent 
cotton.  She  had  taken  it  from  a  small  tin  refrigerator, 
where  its  fellows  nestled  among  several  small  cakes  of  that 
one  rarest  commodity  in  all  Paris — ice. 


60  THE  HONEY  BEE 

As  she  moved  back  and  forth,  now  trying  to  soothe  the 
outraged  baby,  now  testing  the  water  with  her  finger  and 
taking  the  bottle  out  to  shake  it,  she  thought  of  Stanley 
'Aitcheson.  Yes,  it  would  be  awkward  should  he  find  her. 
And  very  likely  he  would  find  her.  He  would  be  persistent 
• — exigent,  even.  He  must  not  know  that  she  had  moved 
over  to  this  queer  little  hotel.  He  must  not  know  about  the 
baby ;  or  about  Blink  Moran. 

She  sighed  and  pressed  her  hand  at  the  back  of  her  head. 
She  must  be  very  careful  indeed.  The  thought  irked  her. 
She  frowned  and  compressed  her  lips,  then  shrugged  her 
shoulders.  She  would  face  the  facts  as  they  might  develop. 
The  thing  to  do  now  was  to  wash  her  hands,  take  a  rubber 
nipple  from  the  cup  of  boracic  acid  solution  on  the  window- 
sill  and  put  it  on  the  bottle.  Already,  she  felt,  she  was 
growing  less  clumsy  in  these  little  matters.  Within  another 
day  or  so  she  would  be  deft  enough  at  it.  She  seated  herself 
beside  the  basket  and  slipped  the  nipple  into  the  wide-open 
mouth.  Instantly  there  was  peace. 

At  half  past  ten  that  night  Moran  tapped  and  tiptoed  in. 
The  baby  was  sleeping,  restlessly,  and  at  times  snuffling  a 
little. 

"Got  a  cold,"  Moran  whispered,  looking  down  at  it. 

"A  little,"  said  she.  "The  doctor  was  in.  He  says  he 
wouldn't  think  much  of  the  cold  if  she  were  only  a  little 
stronger.  The  thing  now  is  to  work  out  this  feeding  prob- 
lem and  build  up  her  strength.  Sit  down — the  armchair. 
They  don't  go  in  very  strongly  for  comfort  in  this  hotel." 

"Not  very,"  said  he.  Then,  "Have  you  been  right  here 
all  the  time?" 

She  nodded.    "I  don't  mind." 

He  thought  this  over.  "You  ought  to  get  out.  Weren't 
the  girls  back  at  all?" 


THE  HONEYi  BEE  61 

"Only  at  dinner  time.  Adele  was  in.  But  only  for  a 
moment/' 

"Of  course,  she  has  to  be  at  the  Parnasse  early  to  dress 
for  the  review.  But  couldn't  you  have  left  the  floor  maid 
here  for  a  little  while?  Just  so  you  could  get  in  a  short 
walk?" 

Hilda  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  "Not  until  I  get  this 
business  in  hand.  I  started  weighing  her  to-day,"  she  indi- 
cated a  baby  scale  in  white  enamel  that  stood  behind  the 
closet  door.  "She's  almost  twenty  ounces  under  weight, 
according  to  the  table  of  weights  in  the  book.  I'll  keep 
track  every  day  now." 

He  studied  the  scale  during  a  long  moment.  "Look 
here,"  he  observed,  "aren't  you  getting  into  this  thing 
pretty  deep  ?  It  must  be  a  good  deal  of  an  expense." 

"I  know,"  she  replied.  "But  I'd  likely  be  spending  it 
some  other  way."  She  gazed  down  at  the  dark  little  head 
among  the  shadows  of  the  diminutive  puff.  "It's  got  hold 
of  me,  I  guess.  I'm1  not  the  loafing  kind.  I  have  to  be 
doing  something.  I  was  all  at  sea  yesterday.  You  see,  I  had 
had  to  make  up  my  mind  that  I  was  too  tired  to  go  back 
to  my  job  and  didn't  know  what  on  earth  to  do  with  my- 
self." She  interrupted  herself  with  a  nervous  little  laugh. 
"This  baby  is  just  the  thing,  you  see." 

He  inclined  his  head.    "That  explains  it,"  said  he. 

"Explains  what?" 

"You  looked  tired  last  night.  To-night  you  look  reason- 
ably fit." 

He  seemed  quite  unaware  that  his  attitude  was  distinctly 
personal.  She  saw  that,  as  usual,  he  was  merely  speaking 
out  what  was  uppermost  in  his  mind.  But  none  the  less, 
she  changed  the  subject.  "When  do  the — the  girls  get  back 
from  the  theater?" 


62 

"Two  or  three  o'clock." 

"Two  or  three  in  the  morning?"  She  was  a  thought 
startled. 

He  nodded.  "There's  a  supper  show  after  the  regular 
performance.  They  have  to  work  at  that,  too." 

"But  isn't  that  pretty  hard?" 

"Oh,  of  course.  But  it  goes  with  the  job." 

She  gave  some  thought  to  this.  It  was,  to  say  the  least, 
an  irregular  life  these  young  folks  were  leading.  Millicent 
and  Blondie  fitted  into  it  naturally  enough,  and  young 
Harper ;  but  Adele  seemed  different. 

She  voiced  this  thought.  He  seemed  to  agree  with  her ; 
but  said  merely,  "Adele's  a  good  kid." 

"She  doesn't  seem  so  crazy  as  the  others,"  Hilda  went  on, 
pressing  the  point  a  little.  For  new  and  confused  specula- 
tions were  stirring  in  her  mind  regarding  the  lives  and  rela- 
tionships of  these  young  Americans,  so  curiously  adrift  in 
Europe.  "She  has  some  sense  of  responsibility." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  he,  "she's  got  that." 

"And  she  looks  honest." 

"Oh,  Adele's  honest." 

It  was  no  use.  Blink  was  impenetrable.  She  pondered  a 
little  whether  he  employed  the  word  "honest"  in  the  same 
sense  as  she  did. 

One  fact  regarding  her  prize-fighter  she  found  down- 
right refreshing.  He  was  simple;  he  was  wholesome;  he 
was,  she  decided,  "comfortable."  He  had  dropped  his  coat, 
hat  and  stick  on  her  bed  without  a  self-conscious  thought. 
Aware  every  moment  of  the  tenseness  of  her  own  nerves, 
she  envied  the  perfect  physical  ease  with  which  he  sat  in  the 
shabby  chair,  resting  his  solid  head  against  the  back  and  his 
big  hands  on  the  chair-arms.  She  was  hardly  conscious  now 


THE   HONEY  BEE  63 

of  the  Gothic  eyelid  that  had  struck  her,  at  first,  as  so  gro- 
tesque; for  she  was  beginning  to  feel  comfortably  ac- 
quainted with  the  calm  blue  eye  beneath  it.  It  did  seem 
odd  that  he  should  be  sitting  here  in  her  room,  at  eleven 
o'clock  at  night,  visiting  with  her  in  the  low  confidential 
voice  that  the  presence  of  the  baby  made  advisable.  But 
the  conventional  resistance  to  the  fact  that  now  and  then 
flared  up  within  her  invariably  flickered  out  when  she 
looked  at  his  big  relaxed  frame  and  found  herself  listen- 
ing to  the  observations  that  emanated  from  his  slow  but 
thoughtful  mind.  The  moment  came  when  she  deliberately 
decided — "He  isn't  even  thinking  about  it.  He's  just 
natural.  Then  why  shouldn't  I  be  natural,  too  ?  Even  if 
they've  never  let  me  before." 

"Funny,"  he  was  saying.  "I  never  thought  about  work- 
ing out  a  baby's  diet  this  way.  But  when  you  do  come  to 
think  of  it — why,  it's  the  thing,  of  course.  I  haven't  seen 
many  babies ;  but  I  know  it's  true  of  dogs  and  horses.  And 
it's  the  way  we  boxers  have  to  do  all  the  time.  It  isn't  just 
exercise,  you  know — it's  what  we  put  into  ourselves,  the 
right  proportions  of  foods  and  the  right  kinds.  And  just 
so  much  or  so  little  water.  I  have  to  agree,  you  know,  to 
make  exactly  a  certain  weight  at  a  certain  hour,  one  month, 
two  months,  six  months  off.  And  not  only  that — I  have  to 
deliver  myself  in  perfect  physical  condition  at  that  exact 
weight.  You  say  this  baby  is  twenty  ounces  under  weight : 
all  right,  let's  bring  it  up  to  weight." 

Hilda  regarded  him  with  deepening  interest.  He  had 
the  power  to  take  her  out  of  her  discordant  self;  for  which 
fact  she  was  grateful. 

He  was  reflecting.  "The  greatest  things  on  diet  are 
bees." 


64  THE   HONEY   BEE 

I 

"Bees !"  Hilda  exclaimed  softly.    She  was  smiling. 

He  nodded.  "My  father's  in  the  business.  Out  in  Michi- 
gan. It's  queer — you  can't  work  around  bees  without  get- 
ting interested  in  them.  You  know  they  seem  to  do  a  lot 
of  things  better  than  we  do." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  them,"  murmured  Hilda. 

"Why,  they  can  make  a  queen  bee  out  of  an  ordinary  egg 
just  by  the  difference  in  feeding.  And  they  never  make 
any  mistakes." 

"Who  are  they?"  asked  Hilda. 

"The  workers.  They're  the  females,  you  know.  But  they 
don't  lay  eggs.  Only  the  queen  does  that — for  the  whole 
hive.  The  workers  go  out  and  get  the  honey  and  manufac- 
ture it,  and  make  the  was  for  the  cells,  and  clean  house, 
and  feed  the  little  grubs,  and  fight  now  and  then,  and  fan 
air  into  the  hive  with  their  wings  when  it's  hot.  ...  I 
was  going  to  tell  you  about  the  feeding.  When  they  figure 
out  that  they  need  a  queen  they  feed  the  white  grub,  as  soon 
as  it  hatches  from  the  egg,  a  kind  of  jelly  that  they  make 
in  their  heads." 

"In  their  heads?" 

"Yes.  They  give  this  jelly  to  the  worker  grubs,  too,  but 
only  for  three  days.  The  grub  that's  picked  for  a  queen  is 
fed  on  this  jelly  until  it's  grown.  They  call  it  royal  jelly 
in  the  books.  But  you  see,  they  really  make  two  different 
kinds  of  bees  from  the  same  kind  of  egg,  just  by  feeding 
them  differently.  That's  what  I  meant." 

"So  the  females  are  the  workers,"  mused  Hilda.  Analo- 
gies rose  in  her  mind. 

"Yes,"  said  he.  "Mostly  they  work  all  the  time,  every 
day,  until  they  die.  That's  all  they  do — just  work." 

"Funny  thing,  though,"  he  went  on,  after  a  moment, 


THE   HONEY   BEE  65 

"they  aren't  so  simple  as  that  sounds.  Sometimes  they 
seem  to  go  sort  of  crazy." 

"I  should  think  they  would/'  mused  Hilda;  but  she  did 
not  say  it  aloud. 

"It's  generally  when  the  flowers  run  out  and  they  can't 
get  much  honey  in  the  fields.  They  get  to  robbing  other 
hives — or  jam  pots  in  the  pantry — most  anything,  just  so 
long  as  it's  sweet.  Sometimes,  when  mother  was  putting 
up  preserves,  it  was  fierce.  She  couldn't  tell  what  to  do. 
They  get  all  demoralized.  They  get  honey  drunk.  And 
you  have  to  outwit  them,  one  way  or  another,  and  make 
them  take  up  their  work  again." 

The  analogies  were  at  large  in  Hilda's  mind.  She  was 
looking  down  at  the  sleeping  baby  now.  Her  color  had 
risen  a  very  little. 

"Tell  me,"  she  asked  abruptly,  "how  is  her  mother  ?"  At 
the  word  "her,"  she  indicated  the  baby  with  a  movement 
of  her  head. 

As  usual,  he  was  a  little  slow  in  following  her  apparent 
change  of  thought.  But  after  a  moment  he  replied,  "Pretty 
sick." 

Hilda  bit  her  lip,  still  gazing  at  the  tiny  form  under  the 
warm  covers.  Her  eyes  were  bright. 

She  got  up  now,  and  turned  away  from  him,  busying 
herself  over  the  cups  and  plates  that  stood  in  a  row  on  the 
window-sill.  She  heard  him  as  he  rose. 

"Don't  get  up,"  she  said.    "I  just  thought  of  something."  * 

"I'm  tiring  you." 

"No,"  said  she ;  "on  the  contrary,  you  have  rested  me." 

He  noted  her  bright  eyes  and  the  color  in  her  cheeks,  and 
shook  his  head.  He  picked  up  his  coat  hat  and  stick, 
moved  over  to  the  door,  then  hesitated. 


66  THE   HOKEY   BEE 

'Tell  me,"  she  asked,  "what  do  they  do  in  Trance  with 
children  that  aren't — well,  when  the  parents  weren't  mar- 
ried?" 

"Different  things,"  he  replied.  "There  used  to  be  a  place 
where  they  dropped  them  into  a  sort  of  chute,  to  be  taken 
care  of  by  the  city.  Sometimes,  I  guess,  the  mothers  keep 
them.  There  are  a  good  many  of  them  here,  you  know. 
The  French  people  aren't  so  down  on  them  as  we  are." 

Other  questions  were  trembling  on  Hilda's  lips.  So  she 
compressed  those  lips  and  shut  the  questions  back. 

But  he  still  hesitated,  there  at  the  door. 

"You  know — "  he  began,  then  paused. 

"What?"  said  she. 

"Well,  I  think  you'd  better  let  us  come  in  on  the  ex- 
pense." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right — "  she  broke  out;  then  saw  that 
he  definitely  intended  to  "come  in."  He  looked  solid  and 
strong  in  purpose,  standing  erect  there  by  the  door  with  his 
hand  on  the  knob.  "Of  course,  if  you  feel  that  way.  .  .  ." 

"I  do,"  said  he.  "And  I  know  the  others  will.  We  all 
know  Juliette,  you  see." 

"Of  course,"  replied  Hilda.  "That  is  so."  He  had  a 
strong  sense  of  responsibility,  this  man.  And  he  puzzled 
her  more  than  a  little.  For  a  brief  moment,  she  tried  to 
divine  him.  Did  he  question  her  motives,  in  some  way  that 
she  had  considered?  Or  was  he  merely  considerate  and 
friendly?  For  a  fluttering  moment,  even  standing  here  in 
her  own  room,  surrounded  by  a  score  of  evidences  that  for 
the  first  time  in  its  brief  little  life  the  baby  was  well  cared 
for,  Hilda  felt  herself  an  intruder.  And  he  made  her  feel 
BO,  this  prize-fighter.  A  little  rush  of  resentment  against 
him  flared  within  her;  and  following  this,  something  very 
like  resentment  against  the  woman  who  had  brought  this 


67 

little  life  into  the  world,  and  who  might  at  any  moment  re- 
assert her  right  in  it.  For  already  Hilda  saw  that  she  her- 
self might  grow  too  fond  of  the  child.  This  wouldn't  do,  of 
course.  It  would  bring  problems  greater  than  any  she  had 
yet  faced.  And,  too,  she  must  not  feel  too  harshly  toward 
that  poor  waif  of  a  girl-mother  in  the  hospital  at  Auteuil. 
Even  if  she  was  a  pretty  questionable  sort  of  person !  Even 
if  the  ideas  of  motherhood  and  marriage  were  inseparably 
linked  in  Hilda's  mind ! 

She  walked  over  to  the  window-sill  and  managed  a  pre- 
tense of  setting  something  to  rights.  She  turned  back  and 
bent  over  the  basket,  tucking  the  covers  close  in  behind  the 
little  back.  After  all,  in  what  respect  was  this  very  little 
girl  different  from  other  children !  Was  it  fair  to  blame  a 
,  child  for  the  dereliction  of  its  parents !  She  looked  up  at 
Moran,  over  the  basket. 

"I'll  keep  an  account  of  the  expense,"  she  said,  simply, 
with  a  softness  in  her  voice  so  unfamiliar,  even  to  herself, 
that  her  eyes  unexpectedly  filled — "and  let  you  know." 

"Thanks,"  said  he.  "I  knew  you  would.  I  make  it  a 
.rule  to  go  to  bed  early.  But  if  you  need  me,  or  if  there's 
anything  I  can  do,  my  room  is  number  ten,  just  down  the 
hall.  Good  night."  And  he  was  gone. 

She  went  to  bed  herself  then,  but  got  little  sleep.  Shortly 
after  midnight  the  baby  woke,  and  became  so  restless  that 
Hilda,  dimming  the  electric  light  with  wrappings  of  col- 
ored tissue-paper  from  her  trunk,  took  it  up  and,  settling 
herself  in  the  armchair  where  Moran  had  sat,  cuddled  it  to 
sleep  in  her  arms.  This  sleep  proved  so  deep  and  restful 
that  she  had  not  the  heart  to  risk  an  awakening  by  replac- 
ing it  in  the  basket.  And  she  liked  to  feel  the  little  body, 
wrapped  about  as  it  was  in  blanket  and  puff,  a  helpless 
weight  in  her  arms.  More  than  once,  very  gently,  she 


68  THE   HONEY  BEE 

pressed  it  to  Her  breast.  She  grew  drowsy  herself.  Her 
thoughts  rambled  and  took  on  the  color  of  dreams.  Her 
head  drooped,  then  came  up  with  a  start  and  she  looked 
about  her  at  the  unfamiliar  room  that  was  already  so  com' 
pletely  dominated  by  the  baby.  Baby's  things  everywhere 
ii — little  garments  that  she  herself  had  washed,  drying 
over  chair-backs !  What  an  extraordinary  man  her  prize- 
fighter was  to  step  into  this  strange,  this  exceedingly  inti- 
mate, atmosphere  and  take  it  for  granted,  just  as  it  was. 
Yes,  he  was  natural.  That  was  the  word.  It  was  why  he 
liked  Paris — because  he  was  natural.  Tor  Paris,  with  all 
its  excesses,  is  at  least  that. 

Her  head  drooped  again.  The  baby  was  warm  on  her 
breast.  Her  arms  relaxed  a  little.  She  brought  herself 
awake  with  a  deliberate  effort  of  will.  It  would  not  do  to 
fall  asleep.  Not  with  baby  in  her  arms.  It  would  be  safer 
to  put  her  back  in  the  basket.  So  she  did  this.  Then,  re- 
alizing that  she  herself  was  cold,  except  for  that  delicious 
warmness  where  the  baby  had  lain  so  close,  she  got  into  bed 
and  added  a  steamer  rug  to  the  rather  inadequate  covering. 

Again  her  sleep  was  short;  but  at  least  she  had  had  the 
opportunity  to  get  warm.  This  time  she  threw  a  heavy 
wrap  about  herself,  and  hurriedly  set  some  water  boiling 
over  the  lamp  and  got  out  her  small  drip  coffee-pot.  If  this 
thing  was  to  be  a  job,  as  it  so  evidently  was,  she  would  make 
a  real  job  of  it.  Again  she  settled  herself  in  the  big  chair 
and  cuddled  the  little  living  thing  close  to  her  own  warm 
body. 

It  was  half  past  two  by  the  traveling  clock  on  the  bureau. 
Before  three  o'clock  she  had  made  and  drunk  her  coffee; 
and  felt  refreshed.  The  baby  certainly  was  sleeping  better, 
this  night,  in  her  arms.  Very  well,  in  her  arms  the  baby 
should  sleep. 


THE  HONEY;  BEE  eg 

'At  ten  minutes  after  three  she  heard  "the  girls"  come  in. 
They  said  good  night.  One  voice  was  Adele's.  The  other, 
she  thought,  was  Millicent's.  There  was  the  sound  of  light 
footsteps  and  the  rustle  of  skirts.  Two  doors  closed  softly. 

Ten  or  fifteen  minutes  later,  there  were  other  soft  sounds 
in  the  hall.  A  man's  voice,  this  time — a  man  who  was  evi- 
dently intending  to  whisper  and  then  forgetting  the  inten- 
tion. 

"No,  I'm  not  drunk/'  he  was  saying.  "Only  a  few  drinks 
— tha's  all.  Jus'  what  those  St.  Louis  men  bought  for  me 
— part  of  a  bottle  of  wine.  An'  then  jus'  a  few  other 
drinks.  I'm  comin'  in." 

The  girl  whispered  her  reply.  But  her  voice,  too,  rose 
after  a  moment.  Hilda  heard  her  say — "Now,  don't  you  go 
starting  anything !  Be  careful,  "Will !  Adele's  in.  She'll 
hear  you !" 

The  voice  was  Blondie's.  And  the  man,  Hilda  believed, 
was  young  Harper.  At  his  next  remark,  she  was  certain. 

"What  do  I  care  for  her !  I  can  manage  her.  She  does 
everything  I  say.  She  ain't  goin'  to  make  trouble.  I'm 
comin'  in." 

The  girl  whispered  excitedly.  Hilda  thought  she  caught 
the  sound  of  a  small  scuffle.  Then  another  door  opened,  and 
Adele's  voice  said : 

"Can't  you  see  the  lady's  light's  lighted^  Do  you  want 
her  to  hear  you  ?  "What  do  you  suppose  she'll  think  of  us !" 

It  was  a  point  of  view  that  Hilda  could  not  fathom  at  the 
moment.  There  was  weariness  in  Adele's  voice,  but  she 
could  not  tell  if  there  was  any  great  amount  of  emotion  in 
it.  While  she  was  thinking  about  it  the  little  disturbance 
quieted  down,  and  doors  closed. 

Hilda  sat  quite  motionless,  holding  the  baby  tight.  That 
this  atmosphere  into  which  she  had  so  impulsively  intruded 


70  THE   HONEY   BEE 

was  distinctly  queer,  that  it  savored  of  an  easy  demoraliza- 
tion foreign  to  her  own  instincts  and  to  the  routine  of  her 
life,  she  was  now  certain.  It  was  the  sort  of  thing  that  at 
home,  in  her  own  environment,  fast  to  her  own  moorings, 
she  could  not  tolerate ;  the  sort  of  thing  that  irritated  her, 
as  inefficiency,  any  sort  of  a  bad  job,  irritated  her.  But  she 
was  distinctly  not  fast  to  her  own  moorings.  She  wished 
Bhe  were.  Even  now  it  might  be  possible  to  take  the  steamer 
back  with  May  Isbell.  May  would  reach  Paris  in  a  few 
days. 

For  a  time  she  considered  this  possibility.  Then  her  rea- 
son stirred  and  told  her,  as  it  had  told  her  before,  that  the 
one  weakness  she  could  not  permit  herself  was  irresolution. 
Deep,  deep  in  her  thoughts  she  knew  that  she  could  never 
go  back  to  the  store  except  as  a  changed  rested  woman.  On 
no  other  terms  could  she  face  Joe  Hemstead.  He  would  be 
more  than  considerate.  He  would  give  her  any  reasonable 
amount  of  time  at  full  salary — a  year,  even.  But  there  was 
nothing  personal  or  yielding  about  J.  H.  Himself  a  finely 
organized,  efficient  working  machine,  he  looked  at  her  in 
the  same  light.  As  a  working  machine  she  was  now  a  little 
out  of  repair.  She  herself  had  admitted  it.  He  knew  it 
anyway,  without  her  admission.  She  must  be  put  into  re- 
pair, at  once.  That  was  all.  The  Hartman  store  was  not 
a  junk  shop — it  was  a  great  smooth-running  power-house 
in  which  every  wire,  every  casting,  every  bearing,  every 
switch,  every  dynamo,  was  a  human  being  or  a  finely  organ- 
ized group  of  human  beings. 

For  the  first  time  in  Hilda  Wilson's  life  this  thought  dis- 
turbed her,  almost  frightened  her.  And  from  this  fact 
alone  she  knew  that  she  couldn't  go  back.  She  couldn't  go 
back,  indeed,  until  the  old  feeling  should  return  of  glory- 
ing in  her  own  part  in  the  working  of  the  great  machine. 


THE   HONEY   BEE  71 

This  was  a  matter  of  getting  into  sound  physical  condition, 
that  was  all.  She  told  herself  that  that  was  all. 

Her  head  ached.  She  looked  about  the  room.  There  was 
her  own  wardrobe  trunk,  standing  open,  her  own  clothes 
hanging  within  it.  There  were  her  brush  and  comb  and 
mirror  and  her  silver  box  of  toilet  articles  on  the  chiffonier. 
But  all  about  were  baby's  things !  And  the  room  was  a 
chamber  in  a  queer  little  French  hotel,  in  Paris.  She  looked 
up  at  the  thick  red  curtains  that  hung  suspended  from 
gilded  cornices,  before  the  two  long  casement  windows.  She 
looked  at  the  none-too-clean  white  paint  on  the  door  frame, 
and  the  heavily-flowered  red  paper  on  the  wall.  Struggling 
with  the  almost  overpowering  sense  of  unreality  that  had 
gripped  her  during  these  two  abnormal  days,  she  looked 
down  at  the  baby  in  her  arms.  And  suddenly  her  eyes  filled. 
A  tear  slipped  down  on  her  cheek.  She  let  it  go.  Here  was 
something  real,  something  she  could  hold  to  for  the  mo- 
ment at  least.  For  the  moment  .  .  . 

She  started,  and  sat  erect — so  suddenly  that  the  baby 
stirred  a  little  in  her  arms.  She  had  caught  a  faint  noise  in 
the  hall.  She  listened  intently — and  heard  it  again.  For 
the  moment  she  was  frightened.  But  everything  was  still 
again.  Perhaps  she  had  imagined  it.  She  sat,  still  erect, 
for  a  little  time ;  then  rose,  moved  carefully  across  the  room, 
turned  the  key  softly,  and  opened  the  door. 

Outside,  in  her  nightgown,  Adele  was  leaning  against 
the  wall.  She  looked  white  and  tired. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  disturb  you,"  she  said,  timidly.  "I  was 
just  worrying  a  little,  and  thought  I'd  listen — " 

"I  was  awake,"  said  Hilda.  She  did  not  feel  unkindness 
for  the  girl,  but  could  not  help  speaking  with  a  stiffness 
that  was,  in  part,  self-consciousness. 

Adele  bit  her  lip,  then  looked  down  at  the  little  dark  head 


72  THE   HOSTEY   BEE 

that  was  cuddled  in  the  folds  of  the  puff:    "i*>he's  all 
right?" 

Hilda  nodded.  "A  little  cold,  that's  all.  The  snuffles 
seem  to  interfere  some  with  her  breathing  and  wake  her  up. 
So  I'm  holding  her.  The  colic  seems  to  be  a  good  deal 

better." 

• 

Adele  hesitated,  turned  half  away,  then,  with  a  whis- 
pered "Good  night,"  slipped  down  the  hall.  Hilda  closed 
the  door. 


VI 


ON  CERTAIN  DIFFICULTIES  IN  THE  WAY  OF  BEING  NATURAL 
AND  TRUTHFUL  AT  THE  SAME  TIME 

A7TEE  two  or  three  days  it  became  evident  that  the 
baby  was  not  strong  enough  to  throw  off  her  cold 
easily;  the  infection  must  run  its  course.  And  for  Hilda 
the  problem  of  devoting  herself  to  the  wavering  little  life 
and  at  the  same  time  accounting  for  herself  to  her  business 
acquaintances  showed  evidences  of  becoming  acute. 

She  was  determined  not  to  give  up  the  baby.  Already 
the  child,  with  its  appeal  to  her  deepest  instinct  (partly 
atrophied  though  this  instinct  may  have  been),  and  its 
helplessness,  had  found  out  and  filled  and  warmed  every 
hidden  corner  in  her  hitherto  empty  heart.  She  had  told 
Moran  that  the  baby  was  a  job ;  she  could  not  have  told  him 
or  any  one  how  much  more  than  a  job  it  was  to  her  now. 
She  prepared  the  food,  washed  out  the  little  garments, 
bathed  and  powdered  the  thin  body,  with  a  devotion  that 
was  almost  fiercely  primitive.  The  others  felt  her  strong 
/sense  of  monopoly  in  the  matter,  but  were  so  impressed  by 
'her  ability  and  determination  that  they  accepted  the  situa- 
tion in  a  spirit  of  complete  and  ingenuous  friendliness. 

Moran  was  in  and  out,  always  quiet,  always  solid.  Early 
each  afternoon,  following  that  confused  first  day,  he  in- 
sisted on  taking  her  out  for  a  walk,  bringing  her  back  in 
time  to  release  Adele  for  her  work  at  the  Parnasse.  Hilda 

73 


74  THE   HONEY   BEE 

permitted  this  rather  passively.  The  strain  of  listening, 
most  of  the  day  and  all  the  night,  for  the  heavy  breathing 
of  the  baby  through  its  inflamed  nasal  and  bronchial  pass- 
ages, was  telling  on  her;  and  she  was  glad  to  feel  this  strong 
person  so  calmly  looking  out  for  her  health.  That  was  what 
she  liked  best  in  Moran.  He  felt  the  same  instinctive  aver- 
sion from  physical  or  nervous  weakness  that  she  felt  from 
laziness  or  business  inefficiency.  And  this  influence  was 
precisely  what  she  needed  now.  They  walked  along  the 
Champs  Elysees,  out  to  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  through  the 
Avenue  Kleber  to  the  Trocadero,  and  back  by  way  of  the 
Quai  to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  the  Eue  Royale,  and  the 
Madeleine.  She  liked  the  view  of  river,  Eiffel  Tower  and 
the  Champ-de-Mars  from  the  porches  of  the  Trocadero; 
and  she  liked,  too,  the  quiet  reaches  of  the  Seine,  with  its 
fine  bridges  springing  so  lightly  from  pier  to  pier,  its  sol- 
idly restful  masonry  embankment,  and  the  absurd  little 
passenger  steamers,  covered  with  advertisements,  that 
darted  impertinently  up-stream  and  down. 

She  found  that  Moran  was  watching  her  diet,  too;  and, 
rather  to  her  own  surprise,  did  not  resent  the  fact.  Prob- 
ably because  there  was  nothing  of  the  unpleasantly  personal 
in  his  attitude.  It  was  like  having  an  expert  physical 
trainer  at  one's  elbow  every  day.  In  fact,  it  was  just  that. 
And  now  and  then,  when  her  mind  wandered  momentarily 
from  the  baby  and  herself,  she  fell  to  thinking  that  the  men 
at  the  store  who  employed  physical  trainers  to  keep  them  fit 
(as  Joe  Hemstead  did,  year  in  and  year  out)  had  no  such 
expert  advice  as  was  now  being  quietly  pressed  on  her.  She 
even  jotted  down  some  of  his  comments  regarding  diet  and 
the  mild  sorts  of  exercise  that  a  woman  could  properly  un- 
dertake, for  reference  later  on  when  this  baby  problem 
ehould  be  off  her  hands. 


THE   HOXEY   BEE  75 

Adele  helped  all  she  could ;  but  her  late  night  work  made 
it  necessary  for  her  to  sleep  during  the  greater  part  of  the 
mornings. 

Hilda  was  not  comfortably  certain  that  she  approved  of 
Adele.  So  strong  was  this  feeling  that  she  made  it  a  point 
not  to  learn  too  much  of  her  relations  with  that  erratic 
youth,  her  "partner."  She  never  went  to  Adele's  room,  be- 
cause she  feared  the  confirmation  of  her  guess  that  it  was 
also  Harper's  room.  Then,  too,  the  disturbance,  of  which 
she  had  caught  a  few  echoes  during  her  first  night  with  the 
baby,  appeared  to  be  gathering  head.  Hilda  felt  that  a  sit- 
uation at  once  unpleasant  and  quite  beyond  her  own  control 
was  likely  to  be  discovered  any  day.  It  was  a  situation  in 
which  she  herself  might  very  easily  become  involved.  She 
did  not  like  to  think  about  it. 

Indeed,  the  slightly  confusing  fact  was  that  Hilda  could 
not  help  liking  Adele,  in  spite  of  all  the  evidence  against 
her.  The  girl  might  have  been,  evidently  had  been,  caught 
in  one  of  the  rough  and  swirling  undercurrents  of  life; 
but  she  was  not  "bad" — not  with  those  straightforward 
cow  eyes  and  that  gentleness  of  manner  not  untouched  with 
shyness,  that  always  disarmed  one — not  "bad"  in  the  sense 
that  the  flippant,  often  impertinent  Annie  Haggerty  was 
bad,  even  though  she  might  be  guilty  of  the  same  offense. 
.  .  .  Hilda  found  this  line  of  thought  rather  bewilder- 
ing. Sin  must  be  sin,  of  course.  But  Annie  had  a  distinct 
touch  of  the  adventurous  in  her.  Adele  had  none,  appar- 
ently; one  felt  that,  despite  her  natural  grace  and  distinc- 
tion on  the  dancing  floor,  she  ought  to  have  a  home,  and  ba- 
bies, and  sewing  and  cooking  to  do.  One  felt  that  she  would 
be  content ;  and  content  with  almost  any  fairly  sober,  fairly 
kind  man  for  a  husband.  And  yet,  the  adventurous  quality 
is  not  necessarily  sinful,  in  itself.  .  .  .  Hilda  gave  it  up. 


76  THE   HONEY  BEE 

On  the  third  morning  Hilda  took  a  step  which  she  saw 
plainly  had  to  be  taken.  She  rode  down  to  the  Armande- 
ville  offices.  Deliberately  avoiding  the  gallant  head  of  the 
house,  she  sought  out  M.  Levy,  the  experienced  Jewish  em- 
ployee who  had  for  years  accompanied  her  on  her  buying 
expeditions  as  translator  and  business  agent ;  and  set  her- 
self at  the  task  of  apparently  bidding  him  a  casually 
friendly  farewell  while  really  endeavoring  to  fix  in  his  mind 
a  satisfactory  explanation  of  her  distinctly  irregular  move- 
ments. M.  Levy  was  discreet.  He  did  not  share  with  his 
chief  the  privilege  of  making  personal  advances  to  visiting 
lady  buyers.  He  was  too  closely  associated  with  them  in 
their  intricate  day-by-day  transactions  to  permit  of  his  in- 
truding the  slightest  feeling  into  his  relationships  with 
them.  This,  despite  the  fact  that  he  was  often  obliged  to 
lunch  and  dine  with  them,  to  accompany  them  to  opera  and 
races  and  on  occasional  sightseeing  expeditions.  Hilda,  of 
recent  years,  after  her  experience  with  all  sorts  of  men  in 
'France,  Germany,  England  and  America,  had  wondered 
often  at  his  self-control.  She  had  even  wondered  where 
and  when  he  pursued  the  amours  so  important  in  the  life 
of  every  Parisian  she  had  ever  known  or  heard  of.  Some- 
times, so  busy  was  he,  it  seemed  that  you  could  account  for 
all  his  waking  time.  Yet  always  he  was  smiling  and  blondly 
urbane,  always  patient,  always  impersonal;  never  in  a 
hurry  to  be  off  about  his  own  affairs.  Thus  he  maintained 
among  the  flocks  of  lady  buyers,  the  good  will  of  Armande- 
ville  et  Cie.,  which  had  been  not  infrequently  jeopardized  by 
the  exigent  susceptibilities  of  old  M.  Armandeville  himself. 
And  so  it  was  that  Hilda — outwardly  cool,  if  a  thought 
pale  and  tired;  but  inwardly  blazing  with  resentment  that 
the  thing  should  be  necessary  at  all — passing  M.  Levy's 
desk  as  if  it  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  that 


THE   HONEY   BEE  77 

eEe  should  be  there,  greeted  him  cordially,  and  accepted  the 
chair  he  offered. 

"You  have  been  away  ?"  said  he,  all  smiles. 

Hilda  thought  quickly.  They  must  have  been  trying  to 
*  find  her  at  the  big  hotel  on  the  Eue  de  Eivoli.  So  she 
\  nodded,  then  guarded  the  nod  with  the  statement — "Not 
out  of  Paris,  but  with  friends." 

Her  thoughts  raced  on  and  on,  around  and  ahead  of  the 
present  situation.  It  was  going  to  be  difficult.  That  mis- 
erably unstable  thing,  her  reputation,  would  crash  right 
here,  were  she  not  exceedingly  skilful  in  creating  a  plausible 
impression.  The  one  thing  above  all  others  that  she  could 
not  tell,  was  the  truth.  It  had  come  to  lying — no  doubt  of 
that,  now.  Downright  wretched  lying.  So  much  had  a 
warm  impulse  done  for  her  on  an  empty  rudderless  day. 
No  use  even  considering  the  matter  now.  And  yet  the 
truth  was  beautiful — the  most  beautiful  experience  in  her 
barren  life.  She  was  doing  a  natural  thing,  a  human  thing, 
an  essentially  decent  and  fine  thing.  And  she  had  to  cover 
it  up — lie  about  it. 

For  one  deep  moment  a  great  uprush  of  anger  swayed 
within  her.  And  she  sat  calmly  there,  smiling  a  little,  and 
idly  fingering  a  corner  of  the  green  desk  blotter.  She  was 
as  beautiful  as  ever,  M.  Levy  thought,  studying  her  through 
mild  eyes.  A  fine  woman — a  driver ;  and  with  a  good  busi- 
ness head!  Some  of  the  others  were  cats.  He  wondered 
how  she  managed  to  look  so  young.  Possibly  she  really  was 
young.  Who  could  say?  At  that,  however,  she  did  look 
tired. 

"You  have  worked  hard,"  he  observed. 

She  nodded.  "I'm  going  to  take  a  vacation,"  said  she — » 
"the  first  regular  vacation  in  years." 

"Ah — splendid !    You  will  remain  on  this  side  ?" 


78 

She  nodded  again.  "For  the  present — traveling  a  bit 
with  friends.  It  will  be  nice  to  be  a  human  being  for  a 
month  or  so." 

M.  Levy  sighed.  "It  is  always  nice  to  be  a  human  be- 
ing." 

"Yes.  I  will  send  you  a  memorandum  about  the  March 
shipments.  We  have  covered  everything  else,  I  think." 

"Everything.  You  are  not  to  concern  yourself.  I  will 
attend  to  it  all." 

"Thank  you.  I  shall  have  to  leave  it  in  your  hands,  any- 
way. For  I  am  dropping  all  work."  She  sobered. 

"Of  course,"  he  replied.    "One  can  rest  in  no  other  way." 

"If  any  letters  should  come  here,  forward  them  through 
the  American  Express.  I  am  leaving  my  hotel,  of  course." 

He  noted  this  down. 

They  chatted  a  few  moments  longer.  Then  she  rose 
to  go. 

"By  the  way,"  said  he,  "your  Mr.  Aitcheson  is  in  Paris." 

Hilda  stood  there  by  his  desk,  silent  for  a  flash.  She  was 
smiling  again — a  cool  self-possessed  woman.  A  woman 
with  a  good  business  head ! 

"He  was  inquiring  for  you  yesterday.  I  think  he  tried 
to  find  you  at  your  hotel." 

So  it  was  Stanley  who  had  been  looking  for  her.  She 
wished  now  that  she  had  not  given  this  man  her  forwarding 
address.  But  she  could  not  recall  it.  Above  all,  she  must 
display  no  feeling  against  Stanley.  She  could  only  let  it  go. 

She  had  to  move  on  now,  anyway ;  for  May  Isbell  was  ar- 
riving at  eleven-thirty  from  the  South.  She  must  meet 
May,  take  her  to  luncheon,  and  pack  her  off  for  -Calais  at 
three.  She  had  planned  this  with  considerable  care,  tele- 
graphing May  just  what  trains  she  was  to  take.  The  ar- 
rangement spared  her  from  spending  with  her  assistant  a 


THE   HOKEY  BEE  79 

night  that  would  involve  more  or  less  close  personal  con- 
fidences and  explanations.  She  could  not  even  have  ex- 
plained the  absence  of  her  trunk  from  her  room  at  the  big 
hotel  on  the  Eue  de  Rivoli.  May  knew  every  detail  of  her 
baggage  and  wardrobe,  and  besides  had  the  sort  of  feminine 
mind  that  keeps  all  such  details  straight.  Further  than 
this,  she  had  to  get  back  to  the  baby  shortly  after  three  in 
order  that  Adele  could  dress  and  go  to  the  Parnasse. 

The  few  hours  with  her  assistant  proved  less  difficult 
than  she  had  feared.  May  was  suspended  between  a  fresh 
enthusiasm  over  the  costumes  she  had  seen  on  the  Eiviera 
and  a  startled  concern  over  the  heavy  responsibility  that 
confronted  her  in  returning  alone.  Hilda  took  her  to  the 
Cafe  de  Paris  and,  until  time  to  leave  for  the  train,  kept 
her  mind  occupied  with  detailed  instructions  for  the  spring 
display.  Not  until  the  last  ten  minutes  at  the  Gare  du 
Nord  did  May's  thoughts  center  on  the  rather  curious  prob- 
lem of  Hilda  Wilson. 

"But  what  on  earth  are  you  going  to  do,  over  here 
alone  ?"  she  asked. 

Hilda  smiled  wearily.  "I  have  a  chance  to  travel  a  little 
— with  some  friends.  Pve  always  wanted  to." 

A  faint  cloud  flitted  across  May  Isbell's  not  over  subtle 
face.  But  Hilda's  smile  did  not  waver. 

"Well,"  said  May  then,  "I  suppose  I'd  better  get  to  my 
seat  before  some  Englishman  takes  it.  Good-by.  Do  take 
care  of  yourself  and  have  a  good  rest.  And  don't  worry 
about  us  at  the  store.  I'm  sure  everything  will  be  all 
right." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Hilda,  quietly  and  with  a  touch  of  firm- 
ness, "you  will  manage  all  right.  It  will  be  a  good  experi- 
ence for  you." 

May  was  silent  for  a  little.    Hilda  was  her  chief — there 


80  THE  HONEY  BEE 

could  "be  no  reply.  Then,  with  a  moment's  hesitation,  she 
said: 

"I'm  sorry  you're  not  coming  back  with  me,  though.  I 
was  looking  forward  to  the  trip." 

"It  isn't  pleasant  traveling  alone.  But  we  have  to  do  it, 
now  and  then.  You'll  meet  people.  And  it's  always  rather 
friendly  on  those  slower  English  ships." 

"I  suppose  so/'  mused  May.  She  was  on  the  car  step 
now,  but  still  lingered.  "You  hadn't  thought  of  going  back 
and  taking  your  rest  on  the  other  side  ?"  she  asked. 

Hilda  gave  a  firm  little  shake  to  her  head.  "There's 
nothing  in  that,"  she  replied.  "It  wouldn't  be  rest." 

She  added  no  explanations,  though  much  was  passing 
through  her  mind.  Were  she  to  be  anywhere  within  travel- 
ing distance  of  the  store  it  would  be  impossible  for  her  to 
keep  away  from  her  desk.  She  knew  that.  To  join  her 
mother  at  home  would  be  to  slip  back  among  tangled  little 
problems  which  would  fray  still  more  her  worn  nerves. 
And  to  travel  south,  or  out  to  California,  and  sit,  a  solitary- 
tourist,  on  hotel  verandas,  would  drive  her  mad.  What  she 
must  have  was  companionship  and  fresh  work.  She  com- 
pressed her  lips,  though  her  eyes  were  still  smiling  at  her 
assistant.  For  despite  the  trying  nature  of  her  present  sit- 
uation, it  brought  relief  to  reflect  that  she  had  both  the 
companionship  and  the  work.  It  was  difficult,  and  it  was 
queer ;  but  she  had  these. 

They  gripped  hands  firmly;  and  Hilda  turned  briskly 
away. 

May  Isbell,  entering  her  compartment  and  dropping  into 
her  seat  by  the  window,  looked  after  the  alert  figure  of 
Hilda  until  she  lost  it  in  the  crowd  by  the  concourse  gate. 
It  was  curious,  rather,  that  Hilda  had  never  mentioned 
these  friends  with  whom  she  now  purposed  touring  Europe. 


THE   HONEY  BEE  81 

For  she  and  Hilda  had  been  close  traveling  companions; 
and  had  talked  freely,  unguardedly  at  times,  as  traveling 
companions  will. 

Hilda  hesitated  a  moment  with  one  foot  on  the  taxi  step. 
She  had  thought  of  driving  around  by  way  of  the  American 
Express  and  calling  for  her  mail.  But  Levy  would  be  giv- 
ing this  address  to  Stanley  Aitcheson.  That  was  certain. 
Still,  even  the  temperamental  Stanley  would  hardly  spend 
whole  days  there  on  the  chance  that  she  might  appear.  No, 
he  would  write  her  there.  He  was  always  writing,  anyway. 
When  in  doubt,  in  elation,  in  temper  or  in  love,  he  always 
seized  upon  his  pen.  It  was  a  curious  trait;  one  that  she 
found  it  peculiarly  difficult  to  understand. 

"Numero  onze,  Rue  Scribe"  she  said,  in  her  honestly 
American  accent,  and  entered  the  taxi.  She  would  go  there 
anyway.  She  was  tired  of  being  furtive.  For  the  moment 
she  did  not  care  whether  she  encountered  Stanley  or  not. 
Though  her  reason  told  her  that  the  chance  was  too  remote 
for  serious  consideration* 


VII 


HILDA  FEELS  THAT  SHE  HAS  DISPOSED  OF  STANLEY  AITCHE- 
SON.  MORAN  TALKS  WITH  THE  MANAGERS  OF  A  PERSON 
OF  IMPORTANCE.  AND  WILL  HARPER  GOES  TO  BUDAPEST 

THE  cab  stopped  at  the  curb,  across  from  the  Ope"ra. 
Hilda  hurried  into  the  Express  Company's  building 
and  directly  to  the  winding  double  stairway  that  led  to  the 
mail  and  reading  room  above.  Still  deep  within  herself, 
her  constant  thought  of  the  baby  clouded  at  moments  by 
surges  of  that  spirit  of  rebellion  against  the  confusing 
pressures  about  her,  she  gave  not  even  a  curious  glance  to 
the  Americans  at  the  various  grated  windows  cashing  trav- 
eler's checks,  studying  out  circular  tours  and  buying 
tickets,  or  chatting  in  groups  near  the  door — she  simply 
brushed  by  and  ascended  the  stairs  with  nervously  quick 
feet. 

As  she  neared  the  top,  a  young  man  emerged  from  the 
mail  room  and  stepped  aside  as  if  to  descend  the  other 
stairway.  Then  suddenly  he  stopped  short  and  fairly  leaped 
back.  Hilda  looked  up,  and  stood  motionless,  one  foot  on 
the  top  step,  her  hand  gripping  the  rail.  For  an  instant 
she  could  not  bring  her  faculties  clear. 

Then,  pale  and  sober,  an  expression  of  guardedly  unsmil- 
ing recognition  on  her  face  she  extended  her  hand. 

He  gripped  it  hard.  "Oh/'  he  said,  low,  "thank  God 
...  I  left  a  note.  I  was  afraid  I  had  missed  you." 

82 


THE   HONEZ   BEE       .  83 

"I  am  going  in  for  my  mail  now,"  she  said,  conveying 
nothing ;  and  he  moved  on  into  the  big  room  with  her. 

Stanley  Aitcheson  was  a  good-looking  young  man,  with 
something  of  the  artist's  softness  of  outline  in  his  face  and 
of  the  artist's  fire  in  his  brown  eyes — all  this  above  a  pair 
of  athletic  shoulders  and  a  long,  nervously  alert  body. 

Hilda  went  straight  to  the  "M  to  Z"  window  and  took 
her  place  in  the  line.  All  of  five  minutes  passed  before  she 
turned  away,  letters  in  hand :  there  had  been  time  to  think. 
She  walked  slowly  toward  a  writing  table,  opening  an  en- 
velope. The  table  she  had  deliberately  chosen  was  close  to 
others  where  other  Americans  sat  writing  or  talking.  She 
was  giving  Stanley  no  chance.  It  simply  would  not  do  to 
give  him  a  chance.  She  had  watched  him  as  he  stood  by 
one  of  the  long  outer  windows,  staring  down  into  the  street, 
biting  his  lip  and  switching  the  light  stick  he  carried 
against  his  leg. 

He  came  over  now  and  dropped  into  the  chair  at  the 
other  side  of  the  table.  He  laid  his  stick  across  the  desk 
blotter,  stared  gloomily  at  it  for  a  moment,  then  put  his  hat 
on  it,  looked  up,  and  smiled  nervously. 

Hilda  was  swiftly  opening  her  other  letters,  throwing  the 
envelopes  into  the  waste  basket  one  by  one  and  arranging 
the  enclosures  in  a  neat  pile.  Aitcheson,  biting  his  lip 
again,  glanced  covertly  at  the  next  table,  and  about  at  their 
other  close  neighbors.  Hilda  wondered  if  he  had  been 
drinking  a  little.  He  did  that  sometimes,  she  knew.  But 
then,  most  men  did. 

He  leaned  forward,  elbows  on  table. 

"Car^t  we  have  a  little  talk  ?"  he  said,  his  voice  low  and 
not  quite  steady. 

Hilda  placed  her  two  hands  on  the  little  heap  of  papers, 
raised  her  eyes,  and  looked  steadily  at  him  for  a  moment. 


84  THE   HONEX  BEE 

"I  haven't  mucH  time  to-day,  Stanley." 

He  bit  his  lip.  "How  about  to-morrow,  then  ?"  He  spoke 
as  one  who  is  determined  to  remain  calm. 

She  thought  this  over.  "I  really  shan't  have  much  time 
for  a  few  days." 

He  flashed  a  glance  of  genuine  surprise  at  her.  "But 
Levy  just  told  me  to-day  that  you've  quit  work." 

"I  have  never  accounted  to  Mr.  Levy  for  my  time." 

"But — but — "  His  voice  was  rising  a  little.  Despite  her 
resolution  to  handle  this  situation  without  any  show  of  per- 
sonal concern,  Hilda  could  not  resist  glancing  about  her. 
They  must  not  be  overheard. 

"Look  here,"  said  he.  "I've  come  all  the  way  from  New 
York  to  Paris  just  to  talk  with  you.  Do  you  think  you're 
being  quite  fair  with  me  ?" 

Hilda  mused.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  talk  the 
thing  clear  out  and  have  it  over  with.  She  dreaded  the 
thought.  It  made  her  head  ache.  It  was  just  another  of 
those  insistent  pressures  that  were  wearing  her  out.  Cer- 
tainly she  could  not  sit  here  and  quarrel  with  an  excited 
boy.  It  was  plain  that  evasion  on  her  part  merely  stirred 
and  embittered  him.  Delay  would  doubtless  have  the  same 
effect. 

"Very  well,"  she  replied,  looking  straight  at  him.  "I 
really  haven't  the  time  now,  but  I'll  take  it." 

"We  can't  say  anything  here,"  said  he. 

She  agreed  to  this;  and  added,  "The  Cafe  de  la  Paii  is 
just  down  the  block.  We  can  sit  there  and  talk  quietly." 

So,  in  silence,  they  crossed  the  street  and  walked  over 
to  the  corner  of  the  boulevard.  Only  a  few  early  tea  drink- 
ers were  in  the  restaurant.  Aitcheson  led  her  to  the  farthest 
corner,  and  in  response  to  her  nod  ordered  tea  and  toast. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "I've  brought  you  here  with  a  purpose. 


EHE   HOXEY  BEE  85 

It  was  quite  true  that  we  couldn't  talk  there  at  the  Amer- 
ican Express.  And  we  can't  talk  here,  Stanley — not  along 
the  lines  of  your  last  letter.  I  must  say  that  in  some  way 
that  I  am  sure  you  will  understand.  This  is  to  be  the  last 
time  you  and  I  ever  discuss  the  subject.  I  don't  feel  toward 
you  as  you  say  you  feel  toward  me.  It  is  pretty  certain  that 
I  never  shall.  You  said  it  was  unfair  of  me  to  refuse  to 
talk  with  you  after  you  have  traveled  so  far  to  see  me. 
Has  it  occurred  to  you  that  it  was  not  fair  of  you  to  come  ? 
I  never  encouraged  such  a  thing.  I  have  never  encouraged 
you,  except  in  a  friendly  way.  You  are  annoying  me  now 
— disturbing  me.  You  have  no  right  to  do  it.  My  advice 
is  that  you  take  the  next  ship  back,  go  straight  to  your  desk, 
stop  thinking  about  yourself,  and  try  to  make  good  at  your 
job." 

After  saying  which,  she  sat  quietly  there,  her  hands 
clasped  against  the  table  edge,  her  lips  compressed,  her  eyes 
flashing  a  little,  looking  straight  at  him. 

She  could  see  that  he  was  stunned  by  this  broadside.  He 
flushed,  and  dropped  his  eyes;  and  more  than  once  raised 
them  with  a  fluttering  question.  He  had  sunk  back  in  his 
chair,  his  hands  plunged  into  his  coat  pockets.  Gradually 
he  whitened  about  the  mouth ;  and  made  a  curiously  unsuc- 
cessful little  effort  to  smile.  When  he  did  speak,  it  was 
with  a  reversion  to  the  slang  of  his  boyhood,  even  now  not 
so  remote. 

"Gee !"  he  breathed.    "That  sounds  rather  final." 

"It  is  final,"  said  Hilda. 

Again  he  tried  to  smile  at  her;  but,  failing,  turned  his 
head  and  gazed  out  through  the  window  curtains  at  the 
empty,  wind-swept  sidewalk  tables  and  the  pedestrians  and 
street  traffic  beyond  them. 

Hilda  watched  him,  and  pondered.    After  all,  the  boy 


86  THE   HONEY   BEE 

fiad  come  clear  across  the  ocean  to  find  her;  or  at  least  to 
find  a  response  to  the  turbulent  emotions  within  himself. 
Even  granting  that  his  imagination  had  as  much  to  do  with 
this  erratic  adventure  as  any  devotion  for  a  particular  per- 
son, there  was  something  rather  appealing  in  the  thought 
of  it.  Having  struck  him  so  solidly  with  her  verbal 
bludgeon,  she  now  found  herself  softening.  She  had  seen 
other  men  in  this  condition ;  and  even  when  they  were  most 
completely  sunk  in  their  egotistic  self-pity,  they  had  stirred 
her — always  to  her  own  surprise.  This  boy  was  stir- 
ring her  now — again  to  her  surprise.  She  wondered  how  it 
would  be  to  feel  like  that.  Then  an  unexpected  gust  blew 
up  disconcertingly  from  the  deepest  caverns  of  memory 
and  fanned  a  little  flickering  blaze  in  her  heart.  She  had 
once  felt  like  that  .  .  .  years  ago. 

In  his  last  letter,  the  one  she  had  been  unable  to  answer, 
Stanley  had  called  her  hard.  She  wondered,  with  a  mo- 
mentary tightening  of  the  nerves,  if  it  could  be  true.  To- 
ward him,  of  course,  she  must  continue  to  appear  hard. 
There  was  no  escaping  that.  It  was  out  of  the  question 
that  she  should  surrender  her  life  into  the  hands  of  this  in- 
experienced boy,  whom  she  hardly  knew.  Quite  out  of  the 
question.  She  knew — had  realized  for  a  year  or  more,  in 
her  occasional  dwellings  on  the  problem — that  the  time  had 
definitely  passed  when  it  would  be  possible  for  her  to  cast 
in  her  lot  with  a  struggling  young  man  and  help  him  make 
his  way  against  the  currents  of  life.  Once  she  could  have 
done  this ;  but  now  too  much  had  happened.  Her  life  had 
widened  and,  in  a  measure,  richened.  Her  abilities  had 
grown. 

"Well,"  he  was  saying — "I  guess  that  ends  it  all." 
He  did  not  meet  her  glance  of  inquiry.    "What  do  you 
mean  by  that  ?"  she  asked. 


THE   HONEY  BEE  87 

"Ifs  over.    I'm  through.    There's  nothing  left  for  me." 

"Don't  be  tragic,  Stanley." 

He  looked  at  her  now.  "Is  that  all  ?"  he  asked  huskily. 
"You  just  look  at  me,  cold  and  hard  as  nails,  and  tell  me 
not  to  be  tragic  ?" 

It  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  indulging  his  emotions  to 
the  point  of  working  up  a  scene.  But  she  did  not  blame 
him.  He  was  the  sort  that  lives  always  in  one  or  another 
emotional  storm. 

She  leaned  forward  on  the  table,  and  looked  at  him — 
kindly,  even  gently. 

"Perhaps  I  understand  better  than  you  think,  Stanley," 
she  said.  He  brightened  a  little  at  the  change  in  her.  "I 
don't  believe  you  are  in  love  with  me.  No,  please  don't 
shake  your  head.  And  please  make  an  effort  to  catch  what 
I  am  saying.  It  is  true  that  we  can't  go  on  talking  about 
this.  I  can  not  go  on  having  violent  scenes  with  you  and 
reading  violent  letters.  It  would  simply  wear  me  out  with- 
out in  any  way  making  you  happier.  Indeed,  you  would  lose 
ground  by  it,  for  you  have  at  least  had  my  cordial  friend- 
ship .  .  .  Now,  please  listen.  You  are  not  in  love  with 
me.  You  actually  don't  know  me — yes,  that  does  make  a 
difference.  But  you  are  in  a  state  of  mind  that  is  danger- 
ous to  yourself  and  others.  You  are  not  a  man  who  should 
live  alone.  The  thing  you  really  do  need,  Stanley,  is  the 
companionship  of  a  woman.  Not  my  kind,  somebody 
simpler  and  younger.  You  ought  to  marry,  Stanley." 

"You  don't  mean,"  said  he,  slowly,  after  a  long  silence, 
"that  you  think  I  could  turn  my  affections  toward  any  one !" 

She  was  silent. 

"Where  are  your  ideals  ?"  he  went  on.  His  voice  was  low 
and  uneven.  "At  least  I  supposed  you  would  know  that 
love  is  a  high  and  beautiful  thing." 


88  THE   HONEY  BEE 

She  suppressed  a  momentary  impatience.  She  must  see 
this  situation  through.  The  boy  appeared  to  be  a  quivering 
mass  of  youthful  illusions. 

"You  evidently  don't  know  what  love  is,"  he  added. 

She  clasped  her  hands  and  rested  them  on  the  table-cloth. 
She  could  not  reply  to  this. 

"You  have  never  suffered,"  said  he. 

The  reproach  in  his  voice  fanned  her  inner  blaze  high 
and  higher,  until  it  roared  at  the  ears  of  her  mind.  Her 
clasped  hands  tightened.  She  looked  straight  at  him,  and 
a  mask  dropped  from  her  face. 

"There  you  are  wrong,  Stanley/'  At  the  sudden  low  vi- 
brancy in  her  voice,  he  shifted  his  position  and  shot  a  puz- 
zled glance  at  her.  This  was  the  voice  of  a  woman  he  had 
never  known.  But  she  seemed  to  brush  this  glance  aside  as, 
roused  now,  she  swept  on.  "I  have  suffered.  I  have  suf- 
fered because  I  do  know  what  love  is.  I  loved  a  man, 
and  I  had  to  send  him  away." 

"Oh,"  he  murmured,  "you  sent  him  away,  too." 

"Don't,  Stanley — please !"  she  said.  He  had  never  seen 
her  eyes  flash  like  this.  He  had  never  seen  her  so  beautiful 
and  so  human.  She  continued.  "I  had  to.  He  was  mar- 
ried. And  there  were  children.  But  I  loved  him.  And  I 
think  he  loved  me — then." 

She  sank  back  in  her  chair,  still  looking  straight  at  him ; 
and  the  fire  slowly  died  in  her  eyes.  "There,  Stanley,"  she 
concluded,  more  gently — "I  have  told  you  more  than  I  ever 
told  another  living  being.  But  if  it  helps  you  to  under- 
stand me,  I  shall  not  be  sorry.  I  do  not  like  to  hurt  you, 
and  yet  I  must  stop  you  from  pursuing  me  in  this  way/' 

Her  eyes  were  swimming;  but  he  did  not  look  up  just 
then. 


THE   HOKEY   BEE  89 

it  some  one  you  worked  with  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes"  she  replied.  "But  I  think  you  had  better  not  ask 
questions,  Stanley.  It  was  a  long  time  ago.  He  was  a  big 
man — the  biggest  I  have  ever  known.  He  helped  me.  I 
gave  him  loyalty  up  to  the  time  when  it  became  a  question 
of  giving  love.  Then  we  had  to  break.  He  was  bitter.  He 
could  not  see  what  was  so  plain  to  me,  even  then — that  in 
these  affairs  the  wife  always  wins.  It  seemed  to  me  that  she 
was  a  selfish  woman.  Perhaps  I  was  not  fair  to  her ;  but  it 
seemed  so  to  me  then.  And  during  those  years  I  know  that 
she  was  not  the  helpmate  to  him  that  I  was.  I  worked  and 
fought  with  him  in  his  deepest  struggles  and  difficulties. 
He  is  successful  now.  But  I  worked  through  those  years  by 
his  side.  I  never  see  him." 

Aitcheson  was  gazing  down  at  the  table-cloth,  where  his 
fingers  absently  and  slowly  traced  the  flower  pattern  in  the 
fabric.  She  leaned  forward  again,  elbows  on  table,  hands 
clasped. 

"You  told  me  I  was  hard,  Stanley."  He  shifted  uneasily, 
but  she  swept  along.  "Well — I'm  afraid  it  is  true.  Yes, 
probably  I  am  hard.  All  these  years — and  I  am  older  than 
you — I  have  been  at  the  job  of  building  up  a  new  and  soli- 
tary life.  And  what  have  I  found  ?  Every  man  friend — every 
man  I  thought  big  and  honest  enough  to  be  a  friend,  these 
recent  years — has  ended  by  trying  to  make  love  to  me,  by 
showing  the  beast  in  him — "  > 

She  shuddered  slightly.  Aitcheson  observed,  "Perhaps 
you  are  judging  them  too  harshly ;"  but  apparently  without 
reaching  her  ear.  "One  by  one,"  she  continued,  "I've  had 
to  let  my  men  friends  go.  It  wasn't  possible.  And  their 
wives  never  would  receive  me.  Among  the  wives  there  is 
always — always — that  suspicion  of  a  woman  who  lives  an 


9Q 

independent  business  life.  Unless  she  is  old.  Or  a  hag. 
Everywhere  I  turn,  always,  there  is  nothing  but  pressure 
and  suspicion.  So  Fve  driven  myself  to  work  harder  and 
harder.  But  look  at  the  cost !  I'm  wearing  out — at  thirty- 
two.  ...  Do  you  wonder  I'm  hard  ?  Do  you  wonder  I 
can't  talk  with  you  about  love  ?  ISFo,  Stanley,  I'm  not  for 
you.  But  if  you  do  feel  gently  toward  me,  you  can  help  me 
by  letting  me  alone.  That's  what  I  need." 

Round  and  round  the  flower  pattern  went  Stanley's 
finger.  His  eyes  followed  it  intently. 

But  finally  he  looked  up.  "When  you  put  it  that  way," 
he  said,  unsteadily,  "it  seems  as  if  I  ought  to  be  able  to  do 
that.  But  I'm  with  you  now.  And  we're  talking  real 
things.  The  trouble  will  come  after  I  leave  you — to-mor- 
row, maybe.  I  shall  want  to  see  you.  And  those  bitter  feel- 
ings will  come." 

"Don't  be  bitter,  Stanley,"  said  she,  gently.  "I've  been. 
And  it  doesn't  help.  That's  just  my  fight — to  keep  from 
being  bitter.  You'd  better  fight  it,  too." 

She  was  drawing  on  her  gloves. 

"I  know,"  said  he,  "but  I  get  so  bewildered." 

A  middle-aged  couple,  Americans,  entered  the  restau- 
rant, followed  by  a  fresh  young  girl — an  extremely  pretty 

girl- 
Stanley  caught  sight  of  them  first  in  the  mirror  be- 
hind Hilda.  Then  he  turned.  Hilda  saw  a  momentary 
flush  mount  his  cheek.  The  woman  bowed — then  the  girl. 
The  man,  at  his  wife's  word,  smiled  and  waved  a  friendly 
hand. 

Stanley  excused  himself  and  joined  them.  They  re- 
ceived him  cordially;  but  Hilda  saw  and  felt  the  mother 
ehoot  a  questioning  glance  in  her  direction. 

In  a  few  moments  he  was  back.    "Some  people  I  met  on 


THE   HOXEY   BEE  91 

the  steamer/'  he  explained.  "ISTame  of  Macy.  From  Phila- 
delphia." 

Hilda  had  her  gloves  on  now.  "I  must  go,  Stanley,"  she 
said. 

"Let  me  take  you  back  to  your  hotel/'  he  suggested. 

She  smiled,  and  shook  her  head.  "You  and  I  have  got 
to  part — until  there  is  some  sort  of  a  change  and  we  can  be 
friends.  We  may  as  well  part  here." 

He  accompanied  her  to  the  sidewalk  and  hailed  a  taxi 
for  her.  She  was  conscious  of  a  momentary  elation.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  handled  the  situation  with 
something  of  her  old  power.  But  when  the  chauffeur  leaned 
forward  for  the  address,  and  again  the  necessity  for  con- 
cealment came  to  her,  her  smile  faded  and  her  mouth  set 
itself  firmly. 

"I  have  an  errand  or  two,"  she  said  briskly.  "I'll 
walk." 

She  pressed  Stanley's  hand,  with  cordiality  enough,  and 
hurried  away,  leaving  him  there. 

As  she  walked,  the  resentment  was  high  again.  She 
wasted  little  thought  on  Stanley.  He  was  an  emotional 
young  genius,  and  this  was  his  mating  time.  Love  is  not 
always  personal.  And,  besides,  the  man's  freedom  was 
his.  Her  thoughts  turned — as  she  walked  along  the  boule- 
vard past  the  Parnasse  and  turned  off  behind  the  shadowy 
mass  of  the  Madeleine — toward  the  quiet  solid  Moran.  His 
talk  about  the  worker  bees  flashed  back  to  her  surface 
thoughts  with  unexpected  vividness.  They  were  the  fe- 
males, those  workers.  "Mostly  they  work  every  day,  un- 
til they  die,"  he  had  said.  "That's  all  they  do,  just  work." 
And  then,  "Sometimes  they  seem  to  go  sort  of  crazy."  At 
which  she  had  said  to  herself,  "I  should  think  they  would." 
That  would  be  when  there  was  little  honey  to  be  got  in  the 


•92  THE   HONEY   BEE 

fields — when  all  the  sweet  early  flowers  had  died.  They 
become  demoralized.  They  get  "honey  drunk."  They 
even  take  to  robbing  other  hives. 

This  thought  brought  swift  vivid  pictures  of  the  baby. 
By  the  watch  on  her  wrist  it  was  nearly  five  o'clock.  She 
walked  more  rapidly. 

She  was  surprised  to  find  Adele  in  her  room.  When  she 
opened  the  door,  the  girl  was  seated  by  the  baby's  basket, 
her  arm  over  the  back  of  the  chair,  her  face  pillowed  on 
it.  She  looked  up,  startled,  as  Hilda  came  in ;  then  sprang 
to  her  feet  and  rushed  out  past  her  without  a  word,  with- 
out even  closing  the  door.  She  had  been  weeping. 

There  was  no  explanation  until  Moran  appeared  in  the 
«arly  evening. 

"I  wanted  to  see  you,"  he  said.  "But  I  had  to  have 
dinner  with  Carpentier's  people.  There  was  some  rather 
important  business." 

She  thought  him  even  graver  than  usual.  "Is  it — is  it 
about  .  .  ." 

"They're  talking  a  match,  yes,"  said  he. 

"It  isn't  settled?" 

"No.  I  don't  much  think  they'll  do  it.  But  some  of 
the  papers  have  had  a  good  deal  to  say,  and  I  suppose  his 
managers  think  they  have  to  consider  it.  They've  been 
accusing  him  of  picking  the  easy  ones,  and  they  say  he 
ought  to  meet  me.  It  all  depends  on  how  strong  the  pa- 
pers keep  at  him.  There's  an  English  weekly,  friends  of 
mine,  that  is  hammering  pretty  hard.  You  see,  he  thinks 
more  of  his  reputation  than  some  of  our  American  men  do. 
He's  a  decent  fellow,  Carpentier." 

He  hung  his  hat  on  the  nearest  bed-post  and  for  a  mo- 
ment stood  looking  down  at  the  baby,  now  asleep. 

"Sit  down/'  said  Hilda.    "I  want  to  ask  about  Adele." 


THE   HOXEY  BEE  93 

"Did  you  see  her?" 

"Yes,  but  she  wouldn't  speak.  She  Had  been  crying. 
And  it  was  five  o'clock.  Why  didn't  she  go  to  the  Par- 
nasse  ?" 

Moran  drew  up  a  chair  and  seated  himself.  He  crossed 
his  legs,  and  clasped  his  knee  in  his  strong  hands.  He  was 
very  grave  indeed.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  perhaps 
(something  embarrassed. 

"Will  Harper  has  gone  to  Budapest,"  he  finally  said. 
"Skipped.  With  Blondie.  He's  got  a  job  there." 

"Oh !"  Hilda  drew  in  her  breath.  "But  what  becomes 
of  Adele?" 

This  question  appeared  to  relieve  his  mind.  "That's 
just  it,"  he  replied.  "That's  what  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you 
about — only  I  couldn't  be  sure  you'd  be  interested." 


VIII 

MAN"  THEOUGH  A  WOMAN^S  EYES.     ANT)  HOW  EVEN  BITTEE- 
3STESS  MAY  HAVE   ITS  USES 

HILDA  cautioned  him  to  lower  his  voice.    The  baby 
was  breathing  hoarsely,  and  coughing  a  good  deal 
in  its  weak  little  way. 

"I  think  I  can  get  them  to  keep  Adele  on  at  the  Parnasse 
for  the  'the  tango'  work,"  he  explained.  "See  the  manager 
about  it  in  the  morning.  But  they  won't  pay  much  of  any- 
thing for  that.  Girls  are  cheap  in  Paris.  And  she  can't 
go  on  at  night  in  the  review  without  her  partner.  The 
'Twisters'  were  a  special  troupe,  you  know ;  and  broken  up 
this  way,  with  young  Harper  gone,  it's  all  off.  Etheridge 
and  Gay  may  stay  on,  or  they  may  have  to  pick  up  some- 
thing else.  But  it  leaves  Adele  flat,  any  way  you  look  at  it." 

Hilda  considered.  She  felt  like  two  persons.  On  the 
surface  she  was  weighing  this  matter  of  Adele's  immediate 
future  from  a  practical  standpoint.  Back  of  these  thoughts 
her  mind  was  racing  up  new  avenues  of  speculation. 
"There's  nothing  else  she  can  do  ?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "She  isn't  good  enough  to  do  a  turn 
alone,"  he  said,  reflecting.  "Adele's  easy-going,  you  know. 
Harper  is  a  good  dancer,  and  she  kept  right  up  with  him. 
But  she  hasn't  got  ambition  enough.  That's  her  trouble. 
She  stays  where  you  put  her.  She  has  to  be  led  by  some- 
body." 

94 


THE   HONEY  BEE  95 

Hilda  looked  at  him,  straighter  than  she  knew;  and 
pressed  a  meditative  finger  against  her  mouth. 

"See  here,"  she  said.  "Something's  got  to  be  done, 
hasn't  it?" 

"Why,"  he  replied,  with  irritating  calmness,  "I  suppose 
so.  It'll  go  sort  of  rough  with  the  kid  if  we  don't  do 
something." 

Hilda  was  still  intent.  "Tell  me  this.  I  want  to  know. 
Were  she  and  that  boy — well,  lovers  ?" 

"I  don't  know."  His  evasion  was  quietly  perfect.  Per- 
haps it  was  not  consciously  an  evasion.  "I  don't  think  she 
loved  him.  But  she'd  be  steady,  just  the  same.  She's  the 
steady  kind.  Of  course  it  has  upset  her,  being  thrown  out 
of  her  work  like  this,  and  so  far  away  from  home  .  .  .J> 

"I  understand  all  that,"  Hilda  broke  in  crisply.  "You've 
got  something  in  your  mind — some  plan.  What  is  it  ?" 

He  was  slow  to  reply.  He  seemed  to  be  thinking  it  all 
out;  that  he  was  deliberately  keeping  her  waiting  con- 
cerned him  not  at  all. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  at  last,  "I  have  an  idea  about  it." 

"What  is  it  ?" 

"Well,  you  see,  Adele's  not  like  the  others.  Once  I  of- 
fered her  some  money — the  time  Harper  blew  her  pay 
and  his  in  a  gyp  gambling  place  at  Montmartre — and  she 
wouldn't  take  it.  I  couldn't  make  her.  And  she  likes 
me,  too." 

"Yes,"  observed  Hilda,  "she  likes  you." 

"Then,  you  see,  all  this  baby  business  is  going  to  run 
into  money.  And  Adele  knows  that.  She  has  talked  to  me 
about  it.  So  I  thought  I'd  try  putting  it  up  to  you  this 
way.  You  could  offer  to  take  her  in — might  take  the  next 
room  here  for  her.  It's  empty  now.  She'll  have  more 
time  now,  and  she  could  help  you.  You  could  say  it  was 


96 

a  loan.  And  then  I  could  pay  you,  and  we'd  say  nothing 
to  her  about  that  part  of  it." 

Hilda  knit  her  brows.  But  he  finished  what  he  had  to 
say,  apparently  with  perfect  faith  that  she  would  not  fail 
to  cooperate  fully  with  him.  She  covertly  watched  him. 
She  felt  suddenly  and  curiously  afraid  of  him;  which,  she 
told  herself,  was  silly.  He  was,  in  his  way,  irresistible.  He 
moved  slowly  and  deliberately  over  your  own  ideas  like — > 
she  almost  indulged  in  a  sudden  smile — like  the  steam 
roller  of  recent  political  analogy  back  home.  She  thought 
again  of  the  immense  vitality  and  reserve  power  in  that 
strong  frame;  and  again  came  the  tense  nervous  thought 
that  she  would  like  to  see  him  in  action  in  the  ring — a 
gloriously  beautiful  figure  of  a  man  in  short  trunks  and 
canvas  shoes,  all  shining  skin  and  hard  muscle,  tearing  like 
a  tiger  at  his  opponent.  What  if  he  should  fight  Car- 
pentier ! 

"Or  if  that  doesn't  appeal  to  you,"  he  was  concluding, 
"suppose  we,  you  and  I,  just  lump  the  whole  expense  of 
Adele  and  the  baby  together  and  divide  it  between  us." 

Hilda  was  finding  difficulties  in  the  way  of  thinking  this 
little  matter  out  clearly.  She  was  being  swept  along  faster 
than  before.  These  new  influences  in  her  life — the  baby, 
and  Moran,  for  he  was  distinctly  an  influence  now — were 
like  an  undertow  sweeping  her  soul  out  to  deep  water.  She 
could  still  cut  loose.  She  had  been  clinging  to  that  thought. 
But  if  she  permitted  herself  to  drift  much  deeper  into  this 
queer  situation,  that  little  matter  of  cutting  loose  might 
prove  very  difficult  indeed.  At  any  moment  she  might  find 
herself  identified  with  these  people  in  some  irrevocable  way. 
What  if  Stanley  Aitcheson  should  have  a  brainstorm  and 
trail  her  to  these  odd  haunts,  finding  her  involved  with 
chorus  girls,  a  prize-fighter  and  a  baby !  At  this  something 


THE   HONEY  BEE  97 

tightened  within  her,  and  her  thoughts  raced.  Before  this, 
American  women  had  dropped  out  of  sight  for  a  time  in 
Trance  or  Italy;  and  there  had  been  whispers  of  a  child 
here  or  there.  Her  heart  seemed  to  pause.  .  .  .  Stanley 
was  not  discreet;  he  might  talk  with  Levy.  And  she  had 
let  May  Isbell  start  on  the  journey  home  with  an  unan- 
swered question  in  her  eyes  .  .  .  The  complete  other 
side  of  the  curious  picture  in  which  she  was  a  figure  was 
now  spread  clear  and  wide  before  her  startled  vision;  and 
what  she  saw  and  imagined  there  paralyzed  her  judgment. 

There  was  another  factor  in  the  situation  that  she  felt 
vaguely;  but  simply  could  not  face.  This  Blink  Moran 
was  quite  impossible,  except  as  a  picturesquely  casual  ac- 
quaintance. But  there  he  was,  drawing  closer  and  closer 
in  that  quietly  irresistible  way  of  his.  And  he  made  her 
think  of  warm  wonderful  experiences  that  stirred  and 
startled  her  imagination.  The  influence  of  the  baby  en- 
tered here — it  had  set  a  warm  current  moving  in  her  heart, 
it  had  weakened  the  inner  defenses  that  she  had  for  years 
thought  strong  enough  to  resist  anything. 

There  was  the  one  safe  course — to  cut  loose,  go  to  the 
Riviera,  to  Italy,  fill  her  mind  with  fresh  impressions  and 
the  pleasant  experiences  of  irresponsible  travel.  .  .  » 
She  looked  down  at  the  flushed  restless  infant.  To  Moran 
she  appeared  sober,  calm. 

"I  think  she  must  have  some  fever,"  said  Hilda.  "And 
she  is  coughing  more  often.  Listen !  .  .  .  There,  it's  a 
shorter,  harder  cough.  And  two  or  three  times  she  has 
twisted  her  face  up  as  if  it  was  hard  to  get  her  breath." 

Moran  drew  his  chair  closer,  and  stared  down  into  the 
Jjasket. 

<rWe'd  better  have  the  doctor  in  again,  I  think,"  she 
said. 


98  THE   HONEY  BEE 

"All  right,"  said  lie.    "I'll  send  the  boy." 

Hilda  was  thinking  on.  It  seemed  to  her  the  moment  at 
•which  a  very  important  decision  must  be  made,  perhaps 
the  most  important  decision  of  her  life.  To  desert  this 
baby  now,  after  she  had  voluntarily  assumed  so  much  re- 
sponsibility in  the  matter,  would  appear  as  an  incredibly 
capricious  and  selfish  act.  Yet,  by  staying  here,  was  she 
perhaps  deserting  the  main  channel  of  her  own  life — and 
that  in  a  manner  that  might  well  affect  her  reputation,  her 
livelihood,  and  the  welfare  of  her  mother  and  Margie  and 
Harry  ? 

And  all  this  because  he  had  asked  her  to  take  one  small 
step  further!  Little  he  suspected  that  she  was  all  but 
overlooking  Adele's  predicament  in  the  intensity  of  her 
own! 

She  looked  at  him  with  veiled  eyes  in  a  composed  face. 
She  felt  him;  he  sitting  quietly  over  there,  she  sitting 
here.  The  room  was  full  of  him  just  then — full  of  his 
strength  and  vibrant  health. 

He  did  not  look  up. 

She  drew  in  a  long  breath.  He  appeared  to  feel  nothing 
of  the  personal  in  this  situation;  he  was  studying  the 
flushed  little  face  in  the  basket. 

She  glanced  down  at  the  watch  on  her  wrist;  then  rose. 
It  was  rather  late. 

"There  is  one  very  important  thing  I  simply  must  do  to- 
night," she  said. 

He  raised  his  eyes.    "Are  you  going  out?" 

She  slowly  nodded.  "I've  got  to  go  over  to  the  other 
hotel."  She  shut  her  lips  on  the  impulsive  explanations 
that  seemed  determined  to  follow.  "You  send  for  the  doc- 
tor. And  if  there  is  any  delay  in  getting  him,  you  and 
Adele  had  better  start  the-  croup  kettle  going.  Take  a 


THE   HONEY  BEE  99 

sheet  of?  the  bed,  and  put  it  over  the  basket  and  these  two 
chairs.  That  will  keep  the  vapor  in.  Adele  knows  how 
to  do  it." 

She  paused,  thinking  swiftly.  One  of  two  things  it  had 
come  to  now :  either  she  was  leaving  this  room  for  the  last 
time,  and  would  send  a  maid  back  to  pack  her  trunk;  or 
else  she  would  give  up  her  rooms  at  the  big  hotel  on  the 
Rue  de  Eivoli  and  come  back  here  to  see  it  through  and 
take  the  consequences.  Somehow  this  latter  seemed  to  her 
the  braver,  as  it  was  the  kindlier  and  more  natural  thing. 
"I  wonder,"  she  thought,  in  a  flash,  "if  we  women  who 
guard  our  reputations  so  desperately  aren't  just  cowards, 
really !"  But  she  knew,  too,  that  all  her  thinking  now  was 
colored  by  the  situation.  To  see  it  at  all  clearly,  she  must  get 
outside,  in  the  air,  away  from  all  this;  and  away,  clear 
away,  from  this  big  man  whose  personality  so  unreasonably 
filled  the  room. 

She  put  on  her  long  coat  and  hat,  and  picked  up  her 
furs. 

She  felt  him  looking  at  her. 

"Will  you  need  me?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head,  and  extended  her  hand. 

He  expressed  no  surprise  at  this;  merely  rose  and 
clasped  it. 

"You'll  send  right  away  for  the  doctor  ?"  said  she. 

"Yes,"  said  he. 

"I'll  talk  with  you  later  about  Adele." 

She  went  out  and  down  the  stairs.  At  the  corner  of 
the  street  she  hailed  a  cruising  taxi;  then  changed  her 
mind  and  waved  it  on.  "I'll  walk,"  she  decided. 

The  night  air  had  a  fine  sting  in  it.  She  walked  fast, 
with  a  sense  of  freedom.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was 
emerging  from  a  dream.  She  would  sleep  that  night  at 


100  THE  HONEY  BEE 

the  hotel  on  the  Rue  de  Rivoli.  To-morrow  sHe  woui2 
leave  for  Monte  Carlo,  Nice,  Mentone — then  on  to  Flor- 
ence, Milan,  Venice.  There  would  be  the  inevitable  diffi- 
culties attendant  on  the  woman  traveling  alone.  People 
•would  wonder,  and  talk.  Gossip  would  drift  back  home. 
But — and  her  thoughts  hardened — gossip  was  already  drift- 
ing back  home,  as  it  was.  That  was  as  good  as  certain. 
She  was  really  helpless  in  the  matter.  She  assured  her- 
self that  it  didn't  matter  any  more.  The  thing  to  do 
was  to  strike  out  and  get  what  simple  honest  enjoyment 
ehe  could.  Men  would  be  beasts,  always;  and  women 
would  be  cats.  What  one  needed  was  to  build  up  an  inde- 
pendent inner  life,  go  one's  own  way. 

She  walked  around  behind  the  Madeleine,  hardly  seeing 
it.  She  crossed  the  boulevard  and  the  Rue  Royale,  dodging 
from  one  isle  of  safety  to  another.  She  moved  briskly, 
along  the  west  side  of  the  Rue  Royale  toward  the  Place  de 
la  Concorde,  past  famous  night  restaurants  and  tavernes. 
A  man  spoke  to  her — an  American,  she  thought — in  bad 
French  and  a  furtively  wheedling  voice.  Her  spirit 
bridled  with  contempt.  He  pressed.  For  a  moment  he 
walked  at  her  side,  bending  over  and  laboriously  building 
up  insinuating  sentences  in  the  unfamiliar  tongue. 
"Allez!"  she  said,  looking  him  in  the  eye — "Allez!" 
Strangely,  he  accepted  this,  and  turned  away,  a  crestfallen 
male. 

As  she  neared  the  last  corner  the  bright  lights  of  Max- 
im's came  into  view.  A  motor  or  two  stood  at  the  curb. 
A  taxi  was  drawing-  up.  A  pasty-faced  little  chasseur  in 
blue  uniform  and  leather  puttees  was  hastening  out  to  the 
curb.  She  caught  strains  of  music,  and,  faintly,  the  shrill 
laughter  of  bought  love. 

A  man  stepped  awkwardly  out  of  the  taxi,  knocking  off 


THE   HONEY  BEE  101 

Eis  top  Eat  as  lie  came.  The  chasseur  bounded  after  the  hat, 
smoothed  it  with  an  obsequious  elbow,  returned  it.  The 
man  put  it  on  and  laughed.  He  was  unsteady  on  his  feet. 

Hilda  stopped  short — stepped  back.  The  man's  head 
and  back  were  familiar.  She  moved  into  a  shop  doorway. 

A  woman  followed  the  man.  There  was  no  mistaking 
her  type — a  handsomely  gowned,  hard-faced  woman  of  the 
restaurants. 

Hilda  was  turning  cold. 

The  man  was  Stanley  Aitcheson. 

She  stood  motionless  there  while  he  seized  the  woman's 
arm  and  awkwardly  guided  her  in  through  the  revolving 
door.  The  woman  was  laughing  loudly.  As  he  crushed 
after  her  into  the  door-compartment,  he  laughed,  too. 

They  disappeared  from  sound  and  view.  The  taxi  rat- 
tled away.  But  Hilda  remained  motionless  there  within 
the  shadows  of  the  shuttered  door. 

On  this  very  day  that  man — yes,  if  younger  than  she, 
still  he  was  a  man  and  not  a  boy — on  this  very  day  he  had 
told  her  of  his  love  for  herself.  He  had  come  three  thou- 
sand miles  to  tell  her  that !  She  felt  very  cold  and  hard. 
It  was  unbelievable.  Yet  it  was  so. 

She  left  the  doorway  and  walked  slowly  on  toward  the 
myriad  soft  lights  of  the  Place  'de  la  Concorde.  Her 
hotel  was  only  a  few  blocks  away — to  the  left,  past  the 
,Oardens  of  the  Tuileries.  She  would  soon  be  there. 

So  men  were  like  that! 

But  it  was  nonsense  for  a  woman  of  her  experience  to 
accept  this  as  in  any  way  a  fresh  thought.  Of  course  they 
iwere  like  that.  Not  all  of  them  perhaps — but  many. 
There  was  young  "Will  Harper.  On  this  same  day  he  had 
cast  poor  little  Adele  before  these  Pariy  wolves  and  fled 
with  another.  A  sudden  warm  feeling  for  Adele  surged 


103.  THE   HONEY   BEE 

up  in  her  heart.  Within  the  hour  she  had  been  asked  to 
help  that  child,  and  had  hardly  responded  at  all.  For  she 
had  been  thinking  of  herself — she  saw  this  now.  Yet  she 
and  Adele  had  this  deep  feeling  in  common,  this  bitter, 
bitter  sense  of  injury  at  the  hands  of  men.  Even  though 
Hilda's  own  experience  had  been  so  different. 

She  had  been  asked  to  help  Adele;  and  this  very  sug- 
gestion, with  its  implication  of  further  responsibility, 
deeper  entanglements,  had  made  her  stop  and  think,  had 
driven  her  away. 

Yes,  men  were  like  that.  But  were  they?  Other  pic- 
tures rose  in  her  mind.  It  was  confusing.  Her  head  was 
aching  again.  Moran  was  not  like  that.  He  was  back 
there  now,  in  her  own  room,  with  her  own  most  intimate 
possessions  all  about  him,  watching  over  that  helpless  baby. 
She  could  see  him  stripping  a  sheet  off  her  own  bed,  and 
arranging  it  like  a  tent  over  the  basket.  She  could  see 
him  on  his  knees,  working  over  the  croup  kettle  that  was 
to  fill  the  little  tent  with  fumes  that  would  soothe  and 
heal  the  baby's  inflamed  membranes.  The  tears  welled  up 
in  her  eyes.  She  was  walking  very  slowly  now. 

A  wild  thought  flashed  on  her.  How  could  she  know 
that  this  was  not  Moran's  own  child?  Was  she  being  vic- 
timized by  this  easy-going  crew? 

Then  she  shook  her  head.  This  was  not  so.  Moran  was 
honest.  They  could  not  deceive  her  to  that  extent.  She 
had  worked  too  long,  with  all  sorts.  No,  they  couldn't  fool 
her  like  that. 

She  stopped  at  the  end  of  the  street,  and  gazed  through 
the  lights  toward  the  masses  of  shadow  where  the  Champs 
Elysees  begins  in  its  wide  grove  of  trees  that  were  bare  now. 

Were  men  like  that?  Her  reason  said  yes.  But  Moran 
was  not.  Neither  was  a  certain  other  man,  a  big  man,  the 


THE   HOXEY  BEE  103 

only  one  she  had  ever  loved.  He  had  been  unreasonable  at 
times,  even  bitter — as  she  had  been  herself.  But  he  had 
never  hurt  her  in  the  ugly  way  that  Stanley  Aitcheson  had 
hurt  her  to-night.  Never  like  that ! 

She  turned  eastward,  toward  the  big  hotel  that  for  so 
many  wearisome  years  had  placed  its  stamp  of  business  re- 
spectability on  her.  But  her  feet  were  heavy.  She  found 
herself  dreading  it.  And  yet,  knowing  herself,  she  knew 
that  the  other  decision,  a  return  to  the  baby  and  Moran 
and  Adele,  would  be  final  with  her.  She  wouldn't  falter 
again.  If  she  should  decide  to  go  back  and  resume 
those  queer  yet  heavy  burdens,  she  would,  as  she  now  put 
it  to  herself,  "stick."  If  she  were  to  strike  hands  with 
those  people,  they  could  count  on  her  to  see  the  little  sit- 
uation through. 

Her  thoughts  cleared  now.  She  stopped  again,  and  stood 
on  the  curb.  Another  man  addressed  her,  a  Frenchman 
with  a  long  beard.  He  even  took  her  arm.  But  she  simply 
shook  him  off.  And  he,  like  the  other,  accepted  his  dis- 
missal. .  .  .  She  balanced  up  the  situation.  There  was 
that  serious  danger  that  she  would  grow  too  fond  of  the 
baby.  Every  day  of  devoted  care  would  make  it  harder  to 
give  her  up.  But  she  might  have  to  accept  this,  at  any 
time.  On  the  other  hand — and  fluttering  thoughts  arose — 
perhaps  she  could  keep  her.  There  might  be  a  way.  It 
wasn't  fair  to  cheat  a  woman  out  of  her  dearest,  deepest 
natural  function.  There  would  be  difficulties,  of  course. 
But  even  these  might  be  managed.  In  a  business  way  she 
had  put  through  propositions  that  were  very  nearly  as  deli- 
cate and  complicated — and  not  once,  but  many  times.  Per- 
haps the  mother  would  be  glad  to  place  her  well.  This, 
too,  was  often  done.  But  then  she  shrugged  this  all  off. 
It  needn't  be  settled.  She  could  let  all  that  side  of  the 


104'  THE   HOXEY   BEE 

problem  drift,  because  one  way  or  another  it  would  surely 
settle  itself. 

Then  there  was  the  curious  problem  of  Moran.  She  ad- 
mitted now  that  he  interested  her,  even  that  he  stirred  her. 
"In  his  way/'  she  thought,  "he  is  a  big  man.  But  his 
way  is  not  my  way.  It's  absurd  to  think  that  I  would  marry 
such  a  person.  I'm  not  going  to  lose  my  head  utterly." 

She  thought  again  of  that  question  in  May  Isbell's  eyes. 
She  thought  of  the  gossiping  males  at  Armandeville  et 
Cie.  She  even  considered,  with  the  sensation  of  being  very 
deliberate  indeed,  her  own  instinctive  hatred  of  a  furtive 
life. 

A  taxi  rolled  by.  The  red  metal  flag  was  up.  She 
raised  her  hand,  then  walked  to  meet  it  as  it  passed  her 
and  turned  in  to  the  curb.  "I'll  send  to-morrow  for  my 
things  at  that  big  hotel,"  she  thought.  "And  I'll  give  up 
my  room  there."  She  gave  the  number  and  got  in,  with  a 
sudden  deep  sense  of  relief. 

The  taxi  rolled  swiftly  up  the  Eue  Eoyale  toward  the 
great  dim  Madeleine,  that  dominated  solidly  and  splendidly 
the  head  of  the  street. 

It  passed  Maxim's.  She  looked  coldly  out  at  the  arch 
of  white  lights  and  red.  Pictures  rose  in  her  mind — ugly 
pictures.  She  heard  again  that  wild  laugh  of  Stanley's 
from  the  revolving  door.  She  saw,  with  a  sudden  shift, 
Adele  sitting  by  the  baby,  weeping,  her  face  buried  on 
her  arm.  Yes,  she  and  Adele  had  things  in  common.  She 
would  help  her.  "I've  been  selfish,"  she  thought.  "And 
back  of  that  I've  been  a  coward." 

She  stopped  a  moment  at  the  hotel  office,  then  ran  on 
up  the  stairs. 

Moran  came  softly  out  of  her  room  as  she  approached  it. 
He  was  even  more  sober  than  usual. 


THE  HONEY:  BEE  105 

"The  doctor's  here,"  said  he.  "I'm  afraid  we're  in  for 
a  little  real  trouble/' 

"Why  ?"  asked  Hilda,  with  swift  concern.    "What  is  it  ?" 

"Acute  bronchitis/'  he  thinks.  "Or  perhaps  pneumonia." 

«0h— "    Hilda  stared  at  him. 

"I've  got  to  get  some  water,"  said  he  then.  And  she 
saw  the  glass  in  his  hand. 

"Wait,"  said  she,  and  laid  a  detaining  hand  on  his 
arm.  "About  Adele.  I've  taken  that  adjoining  room. 
They've  put  somebody  in  it  to-night,  but  we  can  have  it 
to-morrow.  Adele  can  sleep  in  her  own  room  to-night." 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,  she  can't.  They've  turned  her 
out  of  it.  Didn't  they  tell  you  that  down-stairs  ?" 

"Xo.  I  didn't  speak  of  her.  Just  arranged  to  take  the 
two  rooms."  Hilda  thought  a  moment.  "Then  I'll  take 
her  in  with  me  for  the  rest  of  the  night.  That's  simple." 

His  eyes  were  fixed  on  hers.  He  was  the  taller,  and  had 
to  look  down.  It  was  an  uncomfortably  direct  gaze;  she 
could  not  meet  it.  Yet  it  was  honest,  and  she  could  not 
take  offense. 

"I've  got  to  get  the  water,"  he  said,  still  gazing  at  her. 
"I'm  glad  you're  back  here,"  he  added. 

The  ring  of  respectful  but  blunt  admiration  in  his  voice 
brought  color  to  her  cheeks;  color  that  lingered  as  she 
passed  swiftly  by  him  into  her  room. 


IX 


HILDA  WISHES  ADELE  WOULD  KEEP  HEE  HANDS  OFF.     AND 
IS    SUEPEISED   TO    HEAR    HEE    NAME    SPOKEN 

THE  fact  that  gave  Hilda  the  deepest  pain,  during  the 
days  of  anxious  watching  that  followed  the  doctor's 
night  call,  was  that  so  little  could  be  done  to  help  the  baby 
in  its  struggle  for  breath  and  life.  The  windows  were  kept 
open,  day  and  night;  and  a  fire  flickered  steadily  in  the 
small  grate.  A  screen  and  draped  chair-backs  were  so 
placed  about  the  basket  as  to  shield  the  baby  from 
drafts;  and  Hilda  and  Adele  between  them  made  a  coat 
of  light  flannel  wadded  with  cotton  batting  to  keep  the 
thin  little  body  warm.  The  doctor  prescribed  little  in  the 
way  of  drugs.  It  was  mainly  a  question  of  oxygen  and 
food,  he  said.  Accordingly,  Hilda  bent  all  her  ingenuity 
to  preparing  the  precise  modification  of  milk  that  the  baby 
seemed  best  able  to  digest  and  assimilate. 

The  doctor  had  suggested  a  nurse.  But  Hilda  had 
shaken  her  head  at  this.  She  would  not  consider  giving 
up  any  part  of  the  laborious,  hour-by-hour  detail  of  caring 
for  the  helpless  infant.  And  the  doctor,  a  middle-aged 
American,  reflectively  considering  the  extraordinarily 
good-looking  woman  before  him,  so  unmistakably  a  woman 
of  training  and  ability,  accepted  her  decision.  And  if  his 
reflections,  as  his  shrewd  gaze  wandered  from  Hilda  to  the 
wan-faced  Adele,  and  from  her  to  the  celebrated  Blink 
Moran  who  at  that  moment  gravely  entered  the  room  with 

106 


•THE   HONEY   BEE  107 

a  glass  of  water,  ran  off  into  dubious  speculation,  Hilda 
never  knew  it.  For  once,  so  deep  were  her  thoughts  re- 
garding the  frail  little  life  in  the  basket,  she  did  not  con- 
sider the  conventions  at  all.  The  doctor  was  there  be- 
cause it  was  his  job  to  be  there.  He  seemed  to  know  his 
business.  And  that,  in  her  intensity  of  feeling,  was  all  she 
asked  of  him. 

She  worked  so  hard,  indeed,  during  these  days,  that  her 
mind  dwelt  only  at  rare  intervals  on  the  curious  life  she 
was  living.  She  took  to  lying  down  and  snatching  a  few 
moments  of  sleep  whenever  an  opportunity  offered ;  usually 
in  Adele's  room,  because  Moran  came  in  and  out  at  all 
hours.  He  sat  with  the  baby  a  good  deal,  particularly 
after  Hilda's  discovery  that  Adele  was  eating  next  to  noth- 
ing and  was  really  in  a  run-down  condition  that  bordered 
on  illness.  He  became  as  deft  as  Hilda  herself  in  handling 
the  baby  and  in  smoothing  out  and  rearranging  bed  linen. 
During  the  first  day  or  so  Hilda  found  the  extreme  inti- 
macy of  some  of  the  work  rather  embarrassing,  but,  realiz- 
ing how  wholesomely  and  completely  Moran  and  Adele  ac- 
cepted every  natural  detail  of  life  she  deliberately  thrust 
aside  her  self -consciousness  in  the  matter. 

Bather  more  difficult  than  this  was  the  task  of  familiar- 
izing herself  with  Adele's  artless  ways  with  Moran.  Adele 
usually  addressed  him  as  "Dear"  and  "Dearie."  She  was 
continually  taking  his  arm,  or  stroking  his  hand.  More 
than  once,  when  Hilda  came  in  from  her  daily  walk,  she 
found  Moran  seated  by  the  basket,  chin  on  hand,  gazing 
soberly  down  at  the  little  being  that  was  fighting  instinc- 
tively and  blindly  to  clear  its  inflamed  bronchial  passages 
and  the  slightly  congested  portion  of  its  lungs ;  and  Adele 
leaning  on  his  shoulder,  her  arm  about  his  neck,  her  slini 
fingers  perhaps  playing  absently  in  his  hair. 


108  THE   HONEY   BEE 

It  did  not  seem  to  Hilda  that  Adele  was  in  love  witK 
Moran.  Certainly  lie  was  not  in  love  with  the  girl;  for 
it  was  invariably  toward  herself,  Hilda  reflected,  that  he 
showed  the  unself-conscious  solicitude,  even  tenderness,  that 
she  found  so  restful  and  pleasing.  As  nearly  as  she  could 
understand  this  rather  queer  business,  he  simply  took 
Adele  and  her  little  attentions  for  granted.  Certainly  he 
never  started  or  shifted  his  position  when  Hilda  came  in 
upon  them.  Nor  did  he  ever  himself  caress  Adele.  Hilda 
told  herself  that  Adele  played  about  him  as  a  child  will 
play  about  a  big  dog.  But  nevertheless,  she  wished  Adele 
wouldn't  do  it.  More  than  once,  when  she  found  herself 
alone  with  Adele,  the  thought  of  these  free  and  easy  ways 
intruded  into  her  mind  and  made  her  rather  stiff er  in  man- 
ner than  she  would  otherwise  have  been.  But  this  slight 
stiffness  made  no  difference  to  Adele.  "She's  not  very 
fine,"  Hilda  thought.  Indeed,  the  child  had  early  taken 
to  calling  Hilda  by  her  given  name.  She  did  this  quite 
naturally,  as  if  she  never  addressed  any  one  in  any  other 
way,  and  yet  without  the  slightest  diminution  of  the  defer- 
ence she  so  plainly  felt  toward  Hilda. 

One  afternoon  Hilda  came  in,  pausing  as  usual  before 
opening  the  door  and  making  a  little  extra  noise  as  a  warn- 
ing, and  found  the  two,  not  by  the  baby,  who  was  sleeping 
at  the  moment,  but  in  Adele's  room.  Moran  was  seated  on 
the  sofa,  one  knee  clasped  in  his  big  hands.  Adele  was 
curled  up  on  the  floor  beside  him,  looking  up  with  an  eager 
light  in  her  eyes.  She  heard  the  door  open,  and  beckoned. 
Hilda  winced,  but  went  on  into  the  room  with  them,  threw 
aside  her  furs  and  coat,  and  dropped  into  a  chair. 

"Oh,  Hilda,  dear/'  Adele  whispered,  "what  do  you  think 
has  happened  ?  You  can't  guess !" 

Hilda  smiled,  rather  wearily,  and  slowly  shook  her  head. 


THE   HOKEY   BEE  109 

"But  do  guess !  It's  happened  to  Blink.  And  it's  won- 
derful." 

Hilda  searched  her  mind. 

Adele's  face  fell.    Then,  more  quietly,  she  explained. 

"He's  got  his  match  with  Carpentier." 

Hilda  compressed  her  lips.  The  simple  announcement 
brought  a  curious  and  inexplicable  little  thrill.  She  looked, 
almost  shyly,  at  the  big  man,  her  friend,  seated  there  on 
the  sofa.  He  was  utterly  unperturbed.  She  had  never 
seen  him  otherwise.  She  had  never  heard  him  utter  a  hasty 
or  emotional  word.  She  had  never  even  seen  him  make  a 
hasty  motion.  He  was  slow — kind  bjit  slow,  like  the  big 
dog  Adele  made  of  him.  .  .  .  Yet,  the  men  she  had  seen 
fighting  on  that  disconcertingly  interesting  evening  out  at 
Luna  Park  by  the  Porte  Maillot,  had  been,  every  man, 
alert,  swift,  rushing  creatures,  tigers  all.  This  man  he 
was  to  meet,  the  great  Carpentier,  had  exhibited  a  nervous 
agility  in  every  movement  of  a  ringer.  And  yet  Moran 
was  admittedly  a  match  for  this  alert  champion,  he  was  ad- 
mittedly greater  than  those  vigorous  flashing  fighters  she 
had  seen  in  action.  The  crowd  that  had  gazed  on  him  that 
night  with  such  admiring  curiosity  knew  that.  They  knew 
something  about  him  that  she,  close  as  she  now  was  to  him, 
did  not  know  at  all.  The  passing  thought  stirred  a  curiously 
unreasonable  little  rush  of  emotion  within  her — an  emotion 
not  unlike  crude  primitive  jealousy.  Jealousy  of  a  crowd 
of  Frenchmen  and  women!  .  .  .  Moran  himself  knew 
this  quality  of  his  own  nature,  knew  it  so  well  that  he 
never  bothered  to  exhibit  the  faintest  flash  of  it  in  his 
ordinary  life.  He  never  even  seemed  to  think  of  it. 

Hilda  was  disturbed — vaguely,  but  deeply. 

Adele  was  chattering  on — "It's  to  be  a  month  from  to- 
night, out  at  Luna  Park.  Blink's  to  have  twenty  thousand 


110  THE   HONEY  BEE 

francs,  win,  lose  or  draw,  and  the  championship  if  he  wins. 
Think  of  it,  Hilda,  dear — the  heavyweight  championship 
of  France.  And  Blink  a  middleweight!" 

Moran  gravely  shook  his  head  at  this.  "Hardly  a  middle- 
weight, Adele,"  he  said.  "I've  put  on  too  much  for  that. 
I  shan't  ever  make  a  hundred  and  fifty-eight  again — 
couldn't  do  it  now,  without  weakening  myself  pretty  se- 
riously." 

"But  you  won't  weigh  as  much  as  Carpentier,"  Adele 
persisted. 

"Pretty  near  it.  I  think  I'll  fight  at  about  a  hundred 
and  seventy.  That'll  be  giving  him  five  to  ten  pounds — - 
not  so  much !" 

Hilda  tried  to  reflect.  tfYou — you'll  be  pretty  busy 
now,"  she  ventured,  making  a  determined  effort  to  cover 
her  sudden  sinking  of  heart. 

He  shook  his  head.  "Not  so  much  as  if  I  was  really  out 
of  condition,  and  had  to  train  hard,"  he  replied.  "You  see, 
until  just  lately,  I've  done  gym  work  and  wrestling  and 
sparring,  and  even  some  road  work  now  and  then — oh,  all 
fall  and  winter.  And  I've  had  fourteen  fights  since  Sep- 
tember. I'm  really  pretty  fit  right  now.  Probably  for  the 
last  week  or  so,  just  before  the  fight,  I  ought  to  go  out  to 
the  country  and  put  in  all  my  time  at  it  .  .  ." 

He  hesitated,  and  his  gaze  wandered  in  through  the 
open  doorway  to  the  baby's  basket.  Hilda's  gaze  followed 
his.  And  Adele's.  They  were  silent  for  a  little  time. 

The  baby  coughed;  and  they  saw  the  basket  shake  with 
the  effort.  A  faint  whimpering  followed.  Hilda  and 
Adele  sprang  up  as  one  person  and  glided  swiftly  to  the 
basket.  Hilda  smoothed  out  the  bedding,  and  changed  the 
baby's  position  a  little.  Then  she  and  Adele,  one  on  each 


Bide  of  the  basket,  stood  motionless  while  the  baby  drifted 
off  again  into  a  light  restless  sleep. 

Adele  was  the  first  to  slip  back  into  the  other  room. 

Hilda  followed. 

Moran  was  still  seated,  still  clasping  his  knee  in  those 
solid  hands  of  his.  Adele  was  kneeling  on  the  sofa  beside 
him  and  had  thrown  an  arm  across  his  shoulders. 

"We've  got  to  work  harder  now,  Hilda,"  she  said,  with 
a  desperate  sort  of  earnestness.  "I  haven't  helped  very 
much,  but  I'm  going  to  do  better.  We've  got  to  take  care 
of  Blink  now,  too." 

He  smiled  at  this.  "You  haven't  got  to  take  care  of  me, 
child,"  he  said. 

Adele  nodded  vigorously;  her  lips  compressed,  her  eyes 
glistening.  "You  know,  Blink,"  she  insisted,  giving  his 
big,  quite  immovable  shoulders  an  impulsive  squeeze  with 
her  frail  arm,  "you've  got  to  have  your  sleep.  We're  not 
going  to  let  you  in  on  the  night  work  any  more.  You 
must  be  in  bed  every  night  by  ten.  If  I  have  to  see  to  it 
myself.  Yes,  I'm  going  to  put  your  light  out  every  night 
at  ten." 

Moran  smiled  again.  "Eleven  will  do,  Adele,"  he  said. 
"Too  much  sleep  is  as  bad  as  too  little." 

Adele  merely  shook  her  head  at  this,  very  firmly.  And 
Hilda  felt  uncomfortably  out  of  the  situation.  She  wished 
Adele  would  let  him  alone.  She  wondered  a  little,  with  a 
strange  stirring  wonder,  what  could  be  the  quality  in  a 
woman  that  would  enable  her  to  give  her  caresses  so  freely. 
Plainly,  a  casual  embrace  meant  precisely  nothing  at  all 
to  this  natural  child  of  the  stage.  ...  It  was  not  so 
with  Hilda  herself.  She  felt  the  color  coming  into  her  face, 
and  bit  her  lip.  For  her  to  give  a  caress  now  would  mean 


•112  THE   HONEY  BEE 

• — well,  everything.  She  simply  could  not  do  it.  Not  un- 
less she  were  ready  to  give  everything.  And  this  was  un- 
thinkable. Or  was  it?  Torturingly  vivid  pictures  flashed 
on  her — bits  of  her  own  experience  with  the  one  man  she 
had  loved,  the  man  who  had  held  her  close  and  pressed 
his  lips  to  hers,  the  man  from  whom  she  had  fled  in  a  very 
panic  of  the  soul  and  who  had  been  forced,  by  the  fineness 
of  his  own  nature,  to  let  her  go.  And  ever  since,  her  life 
had  been  incomplete.  She  was  a  cheated  woman.  She 
had  worked,  and  worked,  desperately.  But  now  even  the 
work  had  failed  her.  .  .  .  The  worst  of  it  all  was  the 
utter  confusion  of  it.  She  did  not  know  what  she  was 
thinking  or  what  she  was  feeling.  There  was  the  baby, 
Buffering,  and  tugging  at  her  heartstrings.  Here  was  the 
man  who  was  at  once  so  big  and  so  amazingly  light  and 
graceful  and  whose  nature  was  mysteriously  hidden  from 
her,  touching  and  stirring  her  imagination  and  making 
her  think  of  the  warm  humanizing  compensations  of  love. 
.  .  .  She  wished  Adele  would  take  her  hands  off  him. 
And  at  the  thought  of  the  girl,  all  unconscious  of  self 
though  she  might  be,  slipping  into  his  room  at  night  and 
turning  out  his  light,  she  went  cold.  Adele  must  not  do 
that.  She  must  not  do  that ! 

There  was  some  relief  from  those  queer  thoughts  in  the 
fact  that  Moran,  when  he  now  spoke,  addressed  himself  to 
her  and  not  to  Adele. 

"It's  queer,"  he  was  saying,  ffbut  every  time,  in  my  big 
fights,  there  has  been  something  like  this.  When  I  met 
Willie  Lewis  in  California — the  first  time — my  mother  was 
sick.  She  died  three  days  after  the  fight.  And  at  the 
time  of  my  match  with  Billy  Papke  .  .  "  He  did  not 
go  on  with  the  story.  Hilda  caught  him  studying  her,  and 
thought  that  perhaps  he  feared  depressing  her.  "It  needn't 


THE  HONEZ  BEE  113 

really  make  so  much  difference,"  he  concluded.  "I  must 
do  several  hours'  work  each  day,  say  every  morning.  And 
then,  at  night,  before  I  go  to  bed,  I'll  put  on  a  sweater  and 
trot  out  to  the  fortifications  and  run  for  half  an  hour. 
That,  and  being  fairly  regular  about  my  sleep,  will  be 
enough — up  to  the  last  week.  Just  to  keep  fit,  and  work 
up  my  wind  a  little."  He  glanced  in  again  through  the 
doorway,  and  his  voice  took  on  a  gentler  quality.  "The 
doctor  told  me  this  noon,  when  I  met  him  down-stairs, 
that  we'll  be  through  the  worst  of  this  within  one  or  two 
weeks.  It  isn't  going  to  be  a  really  severe  case,  he  thinks, 
even  if  it  turns  out  to  be  pneumonia.  It's  only  the  weak- 
ness of  the  baby  that  worries  him.  And  he  said — I  meant 
to  tell  you  this,  Hilda — that  the  way  ^cu're  working  out 
the  feeding  proposition  will  save  her  if  anything  can." 

Hilda  sat  motionless  in  her  chair,  her  hands  limp  in  her 
lap.  The  color,  that  had  already  risen  in  her  face,  mounted 
richly  now.  It  seemed  to  her  that  her  face  was  fairly  burn- 
ing. For  one  unthinkable  thing  had  happened  on  this  in- 
stant. He  had  called  her  "Hilda."  He  had  crossed  a  line. 
From  this  moment  she  would  be  "Hilda"  to  him ;  no  doubt 
of  that  now.  She,  willy-nilly,  had  crossed  the  line  with 
him.  She  wondered,  with  a  tightening  of  her  nerves,  what 
experiences  might  lie  on  the  farther  side  of  that  line.  She 
wished,  almost  petulantly,  that  he  hadn't  spoken  that  name 
so  calmly,  so  casually,  almost  as  if  it  meant  nothing  at  all 
to  him.  She  wondered,  even,  if  he  knew  he  had  spoken  it. 

She  drew  in  a  long  breath.  "I'm  glad,"  she  said,  "that 
he  feels  that  way  about  it."  Then  she  rose,  and  busied  her- 
self picking  up  her  coat  and  her  furs  and  putting  them 
away  in  her  own  room.  She  sat  down  beside  the  baby  be- 
fore she  realized  that  her  hat  was  still  on  her  head.  So  she 
got  up  again,  took  it  off,  and  put  it  in  its  compartment  in 


ai4J  THE   HONEY   BEE 

her  wardrobe  trunk.  And  all  the  time  her  color  was  up, 
and  her  pulse  beat  fast,  and  there  was  a  pressure  at  her 
temples  and  at  the  back  of  her  head.  She  wished  Adele 
would  come  in  here  with  her,  and  felt  relieved  when  the 
girl  did.  Moran  went  out. 


HILDA  AT  LAST  HAS  A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  REAL  MOHAN;  AND 
WHAT  FOLLOWS  SO  MOVES  HEK  THAT  SHE  THINKS  SHE 
WILL  GIVE  ADELE  SOMETHING  TO  WEAE 

WHE3T  Moran  entered  her  room,  at  a  little  after 
eight  that  evening,  Hilda  did  not  look  up.  She  was 
seated  by  the  window,  gazing  down  into  the  quiet  street. 
She  felt  tired  and  depressed.  The  baby  was  crying,  inter- 
rupting itself  with  weak  fits  of  coughing.  Adele  was  in  her 
own  room,  washing  out  the  baby's  clothes ;  and  had  shut  the 
door,  for  quiet. 

Hilda  heard  Moran  stepping  slowly  and  carefully  across 
the  room;  and  felt  her  pulse  quicken.  This  would  not  do. 
She  steeled  herself  against  the  emotion  that  this  man  could 
now  stir  in  her  by  merely  entering  the  room. 

He  paused,  just  behind  her.  Still  she  did  not  lift  her 
eyes ;  but,  chin  on  hand,  fingers  pressed  against  her  mouth, 
she  watched  a  fiacre  that  was  rumbling  by.  The  enameled 
white  hat  of  the  rotund  driver  reflected  one  street  and  win- 
dow light  after  another  as  it  moved  slowly  past. 

Moran  dropped  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

Hilda  stirred  to  shake  it  off;  but  the  movement  was  no 
more  than  a  slight  stirring,  and  he  seemed  unaware  of  it. 
His  hand  was  solid  and  warm  on  her  shoulder,  yet  it  was 
light.  For  a  flash  she  thought  of  asking  him  to  take  it 
away.  But  this  seemed  hardly  fitting.  She  must  not  ex- 
hibit her  own  self-consciousness  by  making  too  much  of 

115 


116  THE   HONEY  BEE 

what  was  to  him  a  natural  action.  The  thing  to  do  was  to 
say  something  offhand.  But  her  throat  was  dry;  and  no 
words  came  at  the  moment.  Finally,  the  silence  lengthened 
out,  until  he  too  became  self-conscious,  and  removed  his 
hand.  This  did  not  relieve  the  situation. 

She  heard  him  tiptoe  back  to  the  baby's  basket.  He 
busied  himself  there  for  a  moment;  doubtless  he  was 
straightening  out  the  wrinkled  sheet.  She  had  done  this 
herself  not  a  quarter  of  an  hour  earlier. 

Soon  he  came  back  and  stood  beside  her  in  the  open  win- 
dow, looking  down  at  her.  She  could  feel  that  he  was  look- 
ing down.  She  decided  to  raise  her  eyes. 

He  was  dressed  in  a  black  sweater  with  a  high  rolling 
collar,  a  pair  of  old  flannel  trousers,  and  the  sort  of  light 
canvas  and  rubber  shoes  that  Hilda  knew  as  "sneakers." 
He  had  a  steamer  cap  in  his  hand.  The  sweater  was  tight, 
and  disclosed  the  outlines  of  his  splendid  body — the  chest 
wide  and  deep,  tapering  down  toward  his  waist  and  hips. 

She  manufactured  a  weary  smile.  "Beginning  your  road 
work?" 

He  nodded.  She  felt  that  he  was  studying  her,  and  low- 
ered her  eyes. 

"Adele  told  me  you  didn't  eat  any  dinner,"  said  he. 

She  gave  a  little  shrug.  "I  didn't  want  it.  I'm  all  right. 
I've  eaten  enough  to-day." 

"Have  you  been  out?" 

She  hesitated.  "Well — no,  if  you  will  pin  me  down.  But 
I  had  that  long  tramp  yesterday.  And  to-morrow — 

"That's  what  I  thought,"  said  he.  "You  come  on  out  witH 
me." 

"Not  now?" 

"Yes.    Now." 

Hilda  smiled  again.    He  did  amuse  her.    "What  is  it  to 


THE    HONEY   BEE  117 

be  this  time  ?  Have  I  got  to  do  this  road  work  with  you  ?" 
She  looked  up  now.  "I'm  not  so  good  at  running  as  I  used 
to  be." 

He  did  not  return  her  smile.  "Come  on,"  he  said.  "We'll 
leave  Adele  on  the  job.  There's  nothing  you  can  do  now  for 
an  hour,  anyway."  And  when  she  was  putting  on  her  old 
homespun  storm  coat  and  the  soft  felt  hat,  he  added :  "The 
thing  for  you  to  do,  Hilda,  is  to  get  out  now,  while  you  can. 
It  isn't  going  to  be  so  easy  next  week,  I'm  afraid." 

She  glanced  sidewise  as  she  passed  the  mirror.  This  was 
the  costume  she  had  worn  that  evening  of  the  fights  at  the 
Porte  Maillot.  And  he  had  been  in  evening  dress!  She 
watched  him  as  he  moved  to  the  door  and  opened  it,  after 
speaking  to  Adele.  She  liked  him  better  in  this  costume. 
She  fancied  she  could  see  the  muscles  play  beneath  the 
heavy  sweater.  So  at  last  he  was  to  have  his  big  match. 
He  was  to  fight  the  great  Carpentier.  It  would  call  out  all 
his  speed  and  craft  and  power.  He  would  be  the  tiger-man 
— he  would  have  to  be  in  order  to  hold  his  own  with  the 
champion  of  France  and  England.  And  she  would  see  him ! 

They  walked  out  behind  the  Madeleine,  across  the  Boule- 
vard Malesherbes,  and  through  back  streets  to  the  Champs 
Elysees.  Moran  moved  with  an  easy  swinging  stride,  loose 
of  hips  and  lithe  of  back.  He  made  no  pretense  of  slowing 
up  for  her ;  only  once  asking  if  the  pace  was  too  brisk.  At 
this  question  she  laughed  a  little,  and  stepped  out  more  vig- 
orously, with  a  stride  not  unlike  his  own.  It  had  been  like 
this  on  each  of  their  recent  walks.  He  always  swept  her 
along  in  a  way  that  forced  her  to  breathe  more  deeply  and 
brought  the  color  to  her  cheeks. 

The  bare  winter  trees  were  thick  about  them  as  they 
swung  rhythmically  along  the  wide  path.  Lounging  French 
youths  eyed  them  curiously  as  they  passed — the  big  man  in 


118  THE   HONEY   BEE 

cap  and  sweater  and  soft  shoes,  and  the  young  woman  in 
gray  coat  and  soft  black  hat  who  moved  with  a  grace  as 
easy  if  not  as  bold  as  his.  Straight  on  up  the  gradual  in- 
cline to  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  they  walked,  and  across  the 
curving  roadway,  dodging  taxis,  and  through  the  arch.  It 
had  been  their  custom  to  turn  off  here  into  the  Avenue 
Kleber  toward  the  Trocadero  and  the  Seine;  but  to-night 
he  went  on  into  the  Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne.  She  kept 
by  his  side,  asking  no  questions. 

The  broad  avenue,  with  its  wide  borders  of  grass  and  its 
trees,  was  like  a  park  It  was  nearly  deserted:  an  occa- 
sional automobile  went  by;  and  they  saw  one  love-lorn 
couple  on  a  bench.  Moran  nodded  his  head  toward  the  cou- 
ple as  they  passed. 

"Have  you  got  used  to  that  yet,  Hilda  ?"  he  asked — "the 
way  they  make  love  everywhere  ?" 

"I  know,"  she  said.  "It  did  take  me  several  trips  to  get 
used  to  the  kissing  in  the  restaurants." 

Moran  chuckled.    "They  don't  care." 

"No,"  Hilda  agreed,  "they  don't  care." 

At  a  bench  farther  on  he  stopped  and  took  her  arm. 

"Here's  a  good  place  to  do  my  running,"  he  said.  "Yon 
won't  catch  cold  if  you  sit  down  a  while,  will  you — ten  or 
fifteen  minutes  ?" 

Hilda  shook  her  head.    "Of  course  not." 

"Better  button  up  your  coat,  though." 

She  obeyed,  wondering  a  little  as  she  did  so.  It  was  an 
odd  sensation,  this  of  accepting  the  guidance  of  a  man  in 
the  little  personal  details  of  one's  life;  but  it  was  not  an 
unpleasant  sensation. 

"Now  you  sit  down,"  he  said,  "and  count  the  laps  for  me. 
There  ought  to  be  about  seven  or  eight  to  the  mile — say 
eight." 


THE   HONEY   BEE  119 

She  followed  his  gaze,  and  saw  that  he  was  measuring 
one  of  the  subdivisions  of  the  parkway,  cut  off  by  trans- 
verse paths. 

"I  don't  think  any  one  can  bother  you,"  he  added.  "I'll 
be  in  sight  all  the  time,  except  when  I'm  behind  that  clump 
of  trees.  And  I'll  pass  you  every  half  minute  or  so." 

"I'm  not  afraid,"  she  replied.    "Go  ahead." 

He  took  off  his  sweater,  and  spread  it  out  for  her  on  the 
bench.  Then  he  stood  before  her,  all  white  in  his  flannel 
trousers  and  soft  shirt  that  was  open  at  the  neck.  "I'll  do 
twenty  laps,  Hilda.  That'll  be  about  two  miles  and  a  half. 
You  keep  count  now !" 

"Go  ahead,"  said  she  again. 

He  turned  and  was  off  with  a  bound.  She  followed  the 
white  figure — along  the  roadway,  off  to  the  left,  down  a 
sloping  path,  and  then,  smaller,  jogging  along  the  farther 
roadway  behind  the  shrubs  and  trees.  When  he  passed  her 
for  the  first  time  she  caught  her  first  real  impression  of  his 
activity  and  power.  He  seemed  to  spring  upward  and  for- 
ward with  each  step. 

It  interested  her,  too,  to  observe  that  his  running  was 
methodical,  businesslike.  His  head  was  well  back,  as  were 
his  shoulders.  His  elbows  were  close  to  his  sides;  his  feet 
slanting  so  that  his  weight  fell  well  forward  of  the  heels. 
She  wished  that  he  would  let  himself  out  a  little  more  ( 
when  he  passed  her.  Indeed,  knowing  the  almost  universal  i 
impulse  in  men  of  all  ages  to  exhibit  their  physical  prowess 
to  the  maximum  before  women,  she  rather  expected  it.  But 
he  did  nothing  of  the  sort,  merely  trotted  round  and  round 
the  shadowy  quadrangle,  occasionally  calling  out  to  know 
the  number  of  laps. 

She  had  never  seen  such  endurance.  She  could  not  per- 
ceive that  he  was  even  breathing  hard.  And  while  he  did 


120  THE   HONEY   BEE 

not  seem  to  be  running  very  fast,  still  his  long  bounding 
strides  were  carrying  liim  over  the  ground,  she  knew,  at  a 
really  rapid  rate. 

As  he  passed  for  the  fourteenth  time,  he  called : 

"Let  me  know  when  I've  done  sixteen." 

She  nodded,  wondering  a  little.  Then,  as  his  white  fig- 
ure was  rounding  the  turn  and  disappearing  behind  the 
trees,  she  realized  that  he  meant  to  quicken  his  pace  for  the 
last  half  mile.  Memories  of  college  athletic  contests  she 
had  seen  came  to  her.  Runners  always  "sprinted"  at  the 
end,  of  course.  At  last  she  was  to  see  him  extend  himself. 

Once  more  he  passed,  at  the  same  even  gait.  Uncon- 
sciously Hilda  sat  erect,  even  moved  forward  on  the  seat. 
She  had  been  keeping  count  on  her  fingers;  but  now  she 
clasped  her  hands. 

There  he  was,  coming  up  the  transverse  path.  He  turned 
into  the  road ;  jogging  easily  nearer  and  nearer. 

She  stood  up,  and  waved  the  black  sweater  at  him. 

"All  right !"  she  cried.    "It's  sixteen." 

He  gave  her  a  casual  nod,  and  came  steadily  along. 
Then,  just  as  he  passed  her,  standing  there  at  the  edge  of 
the  gravelly  path,  he  shot  forward. 

Hilda  drew  in  an  involuntary  quick  breath.  The  mo- 
ment had  come  for  which  she  had  been  waiting  ever  since 
her  eyes  first  rested  on  the  man.  It  was  as  if  some  irre- 
sistible force  had  suddenly  come  to  life  within  him.  His 
stride  had  lengthened ;  his  loose-playing  hips  and  muscular 
back  had  suddenly  become  a  part  of  the  stride.  His  whole 
splendid  body  was  in  action. 

He  swung  out  across  the  path  in  order  to  make  a  wider 
turn,  then  shot  down  the  cross-path.  She  watched  him  fly- 
ing along  the  back  stretch;  and  up  the  other  cross-path. 
He  came  swinging  out  around  the  turn,  and  in  a  few  sec- 


THE   HOXEY   BEE  121 

ends  was  past  her.  He  did  not  give  her  so  much  as  a  glance 
now ;  his  thoughts  were  bent  on  getting  out  every  available 
ounce  of  energy.  She  could  see  that.  And  he  seemed 
younger  than  she  had  ever  thought  him ;  indeed,  it  gave  her 
a  momentary  pang  to  think  how  young  he  appeared.  And 
he  was  beautiful.  Yes,  beautiful !  A  lithe  bounding  crea- 
ture, full  of  exuberant  health,  as  God  surely  meant  man  to 
be.  She  forgot  the  Gothic  eyelid,  that  had  made  her  smile 
at  first.  She  forgot  that  he  sometimes  seemed  slow  and  a 
little  lacking  in  mental  responsiveness.  She  thought  of 
him  now  only  as  the  strong,  vibrant,  yet  splendidly  self- 
controlled  man  he  certainly  had  proved  himself  to  be.  She 
even  thought  of  him,  with  a  curious  flutter  of  inner  excite- 
ment, as  he  would  appear  in  the  ring,  facing  the  great  Car- 
pentier — stripped  to  loin-cloth  and  shoes,  a  lithe  powerful 
tiger  of  a  man,  with  shining  sweaty  skin  and  delicately 
playing  muscles  beneath  it. 

She  was  glad,  too,  that  this  exhibition  was  not  of  the 
beautiful  but  heartless  strength  of  unthinking  youth.  For 
it  was  not.  It  was  the  strength  of  a  man  of  unusual  sober- 
ness and,  even,  of  kindness.  It  was  a  calculated  strength, 
to  be  used  deliberately  toward  an  end.  There  was  no  un- 
certainty in  it;  no  waste.  His  body  was  a  perfect  engine, 
under  perfect  control. 

He  passed  her  again,  running  even  more  rapidly  at  every 
step  pounding  solidly  on  the  smooth  oily  surface  of  the 
avenue,  yet  light  as  a  greyhound.  ''Why,"  she  breathed, 
'lie's  a  bundle  of  steel  springs!  It  is  wonderful!"  And 
again  she  peered  after  him  through  the  semi-darkness,  fas- 
cinated by  the  way  every  muscle  from  hips  to  shoulders 
seemed  to  be  playing  its  part  in  those  swift  leaping  strides. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  last  lap  she  shouted  after  him: 
"You've  done  nineteen !"  And  she  thought  he  nodded. 


122  THE   HONEY   BEE 

This  time  when  he  swung  into  the  road  from  the  back 
stretch  he  extended  himself  still  more.  If  she  had  not  seen 
this  final  burst  of  speed  she  would  not  have  believed  it 
possible. 

He  ran  on  for  a  hundred  feet  or  more  beyond  her  before 
pulling  himself  up.  Then  he  walked  back,  holding  his  cap 
in  his  hand  and  mopping  his  face  with  his  handkerchief. 
She  hurried  to  meet  him,  and  held  his  sweater  for  him  as 
if  it  had  been  a  coat.  He  accepted  the  little  attention  sim- 
ply and  naturally.  She  saw  that  this  extra  effort  had,  as  he 
himself  would  have  said,  "got  to  him."  He  was  breathing 
hard. 

They  walked  on  a  little  way ;  she  thoughtful,  he  continu- 
ing to  mop  his  face  and  neck  as  he  buttoned  his  sweater. 

She  suddenly  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm  and  stopped  short, 
•swinging  him  around. 

"You're  a  wonderful  man  I"  she  said  impulsively.  Then, 
as  suddenly,  she  compressed  her  lips  and  walked  on. 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,"  said  he,  "I'm  softer  than  I 
thought.  Three  weeks  from  now  I'll  be  doing  ten  miles, 
and  I  won't  be  blowing  like  this  either." 

She  let  this  pass.  They  approached  a  narrow  street, 
leading  off  to  the  right. 

"Had  enough  walking?"  he  asked. 

"You've  had  enough,"  she  replied.  "Anyway,  you're  all 
heated  up  now,  and  you  ought  to  get  right  back." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  he,  "not  with  this  sweater  on,  and  if  I 
keep  moving.  If  you  say  so,  we'll  take  our  regular  walk — 
around  by  the  river." 

"It  would  be  nice  to  see  it  at  night,  if  you're  sure   .   .    ." 

He  slipped  his  arm  through  hers,  and  turned  her  off 
down  the  side  street.  He  kept  her  arm,  moving  her  along 
at  a  faster  pace  than  he  had  ever  taken  with  her  before. 


THE   HONEY   BEE  123 

She  pressed  his  arm  firmly  and  stepped  right  out  with  him. 
It  was  exhilarating.  But  she  found  it  difficult  to  talk ;  and, 
in  fact,  kept  silent. 

They  emerged  on  the  grounds  of  the  Trocadero  Palace, 
crossing  the  street  and  walking  up  into  the  curving  porch 
that  connects  the  main  building  with  the  right  wing.  Here, 
between  the  great  columns,  Hilda  stopped  short  and  held 
her  breath  in  sheer  delight  at  the  scene  that  had  suddenly 
appeared  before  her  eyes.  Moran's  arm  was  still  locked 
with  hers. 

Directly  beneath  them,  a  little  to  the  left,  extended  the 
terraced  fountains,  half  a  hundred  yards  of  masonry  and 
statuary,  faintly  lighted  by  the  numerous  globes  that  dot 
the  little  park.  Beside  the  fountains,  directly  in  front  of 
Hilda  and  her  escort,  lay  the  gardens,  eloping  down  to  the 
Quai.  Just  beyond  flowed  the  Seine;  a  smooth  glistening 
river,  specked  with  innumerable  quivering  reflections  of  the 
lights  along  the  farther  bank.  From  a  point  on  the  Quai 
opposite  the  center  of  the  Trocadero  Gardens  leaped  out  a 
curving  double  arch  of  lights  which  Hilda  knew  for  the 
Pont  d'lena. 

She  looked  off  to  the  right,  down-stream ;  but  found  the 
view  blocked  by  trees  and  buildings.  To  the  left,  however, 
half  a  mile  up-stream  and  on  the  farther  bank,  she  could 
see,  through  a  net  of  bare  branches,  the  blazing  red  lights 
(that  mark  the  entrance  to  that  newest  and  most  garish  of 
amusement  resorts,  "le  Magic  City." 

Hilda  pressed  Moran's  arm.  "See,"  she  said,  "how  that 
red  light  shines  in  the  water.  Isn't  it  wonderful?" 

He  nodded  slowly  and  reflectively. 

"I  can't  get  used  to  the  idea  of  these  Magic  Cities  and 
Luna  Parks — in  Paris."  She  laughed  softly. 

"I  know,"  said  he.    "Things  have  changed  so  much  even 


124  THE   HONEY   BEE 

since  I  came  here  that  sometimes  I  want  to  pinch  myself. 
But  I  guess  that's  Paris,  after  all — picking  up  everything 
new  from  everywhere,  and  playing  with  it." 

Hilda  gazed  out  over  the  bridge  toward  the  Champ-de- 
Mars,  now  a  great  dark  reach  of  open  country  twinkling 
with  thousands  of  lights.  Then  she  looked  up. 

There  it  was — dim  and  high — rising  from  the  very  cen- 
ter of  the  thousands  of  lights — a  thin  spider's  web  stretched 
from  earth  to  clouds — the  Eiffel  Tower. 

"It  is  wonderful,"  said  she,  "how  these  Paris  views  are 
arranged.  They  are  always  leading  your  eye  up  to  some 
wonderful  building  or  monument." 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "it  is  a  well-planned  city.  I  guess  those 
fellows  knew  their  business." 

They  walked  slowly  down  the  winding  path  beside  the 
fountains,  and  turned  to  the  left  along  the  Quai — toward 
the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  the  Madeleine,  and  the  little  hotel 
that  was  for  the  time  their  common  home. 

"Listen,"  said  she,  after  they  had  walked  for  a  few  mo- 
ments without  speaking,  "I've  got  to  be  there  when  you 
box  Carpentier." 

He  inclined  his  head.  "Of  course  I'd  like  to  have  you 
there,  Hilda.  It  will  be  easy  enough  to  manage,  if  things 
are  all  right  with  the  baby." 

"I  know,"  said  she.  "I  was  thinking  of  that,  too.  It's 
too  soon  to  plan,  of  course.  But  I'm  coming  if  I  can." 
Her  thoughts  ranged  ahead,  scheming  out  ways  and  means 
of  devising  her  reappearance  on  the  Eue  de  Rivoli  and  at 
Armandeville's ;  perhaps  as  one  just  returned  from  a  tour. 
It  would  not  be  difficult  to  plan  a  leading  conversation  that 
would  end  in  one  of  the  handy  men  from  Armandeville's 
acting  as  her  escort — or  somebody.  Perhaps  they  would  get 
up  a  little  party.  Natural  curiosity,  the  adventurous  im- 


THE   HONEY   BEE  125 

yulse  of  the  sightseer,  would  explain  her  desire  to  do  so 
•unconventional  a  thing.  .  .  .  Come  to  think  of  it,  Ed 
Johnson  would  be  turning  up  in  Paris  within  the  month, 
after  his  annual  combing-out  of  the  glove  manufacturing 
towns  of  Spain,  Italy,  Austria  and  Germany.  If  his  time 
worked  out  right  she  would  make  Ed  take  her. 

Then,  quite  suddenly  and  vividly,  pictures  rose  in  her 
mind  of  the  helpless  waif  of  a  baby  there  in  her  own  room. 
She  felt  guilty  that  she  had  thought  even  for  an  hour  of 
herself  and  her  own  pleasures.  She  quickened  her  step. 

"What  is  it  ?"  he  asked.    "Are  you  cold  ?" 

"No"  said  she.    "It's  the  baby.    We  must  hurry  back." 

"All  right,"  said  he.  Then— "About  the  fight?  I  can 
fix  it." 

She  waited  for  him  to  go  on;  but  he  added  nothing.  So 
she  said :  "Oh,  don't  bother.  You'll  have  all  you  can  at- 
tend to.  I'll  make  some  one  take  me.  Only  I'll  have  to 
keep  very  quiet  and  look  my  properest,  so  they  won't  know 
how  anxious  I  shall  be  for  you." 

"You  needn't  be  anxious,  Hilda." 

Again  they  were  silent  for  a  space.  Once  she  stole  a  side- 
long glance  at  him,  under  a  street  light.  His  brows  were 
knit.  He  was  thinking  hard.  She  pressed  his  arm  a  little 
closer. 

Several  moments  more  passed  before  he  began,  slowly 
and  very  soberly : 

"Now  listen  here,  Hilda — "    Then  he  stopped. 

"I'm  listening,"  said  she. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  about  this — about  how  things  are. 
.  .  .  You  see,  I've  never  saved  very  much.  I  never  had 
to  somehow.  My  father's  pretty  thrifty.  But  it  doesn't 
seem  to  be  very  hard  for  me  to  make  money.  Two  years  ago 
was  my  best  year.  I  cleaned  up  almost  nineteen  thousand 


120  THE    HONEY   J3EE 

dollars.  Net,  I  mean — above  all  extra  training  expenses 
and  Henry's  share." 

The  unusual  exuberance  that  had  been  rising  in  Hilda's 
spirit  during  the  evening  was  quieting  down.  A  queer 
foreboding  had  crept  into  her  mind.  She  was  sure  that  she 
had  caught  a  note  of  emotion  in  his  voice.  "What  was  he 
getting  at,  in  talking  to  her  of  his  personal  finances.  She 
slipped  her  arm  out  from  his. 

"Nineteen  thousand  dollars !"  she  exclaimed,  in  her  most 
matter-of-fact  voice.  "That's  a  lot." 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "it  is.  But  I  shall  beat  it  this  season,  I 
think — with  this  Carpentier  match.  A  boxer  can  earn  a 
good  deal,  you  know,  nowadays." 

"I  should  say  so.  Why,  I've  got  what  is  considered  an 
unusually  good  job,  in  my  line,  and  I  don't  earn  anything 
like  that.  Eight  thousand  is  my  limit,  so  far." 

"Eight  thousand!"  It  was  his  turn  to  exclaim.  He 
looked  down  at  her.  "I  didn't  know  any  woman  earned  as 
much  as  that." 

"You  didn't!"  said  she,  a  thought  nettled.  "Why 
shouldn't  a  woman  earn  it  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  he.  "I  guess  I've  never  thought 
about  it.  Then  you're  used  to  living  pretty  well.  Yes,  I 
can  see  that.  And  that's — of  course,  if  you're  as  inde- 
pendent as  all  that,  it  makes  the  whole  thing  look  differ- 
ent. I  don't  know  as  I  could — " 

Hilda  interrupted  him  here,  gazing  out  over  the  twin- 
kling surface  of  the  river  to  conceal  the  smile  that  she  could 
not  wholly  suppress.  "Tell  me — who  is  Henry  ?" 

"Henry  Huybers,  my  manager.  I  was  going  to  say — 
keeping  in  condition  as  I  do,  and  not  fussing  with  the  white 
lights,  I  ought  to  be  really  good  for — well,  say  three  or  four 
years  more.  Two,  anyway.  With  what  I've  got  saved  now, 


THE   HONEY  BEE  127 

and  all  I  ought  to  be  able  to  shake  down  in  these  few  years 
ahead,  I  expect  to  be  fairly  well  fixed.  You  see,  my  reputa- 
tion is  getting  bigger  all  the  time,  and  likely  as  not  my 
publicity  value  will  be  greatest  for  a  year  or  so  after  I've 
begun  to  slow  up.  Even  if  Carpentier  beats  me,  this  match 
is  bound  to  be  a  big  help." 

"He  won't  beat  you,"  said  Hilda. 

"!Nb,  I  don't  think  he  will  myself.  But  you  never  can 
tell.  I  may  not  be  quite  so  good  as  I  think.  And  then,  in 
this  game,  there's  always  the  possibility  of  the  weaker  man 
winning  on  a  lucky  blow.  You  have  to  take  your  chances. 
Well,  as  I  was  going  to  say — " 

Hilda  was  trying  desperately,  and  unsuccessfully,  to 
think  up  ways  of  diverting  him.  .One  difficulty  was  that 
she  could  not  down  the  curiously  unexpected  buoyancy  of 
spirit  that  was  surging  up  again  within  her.  She  even 
caught  herself  humming  a  little  cafe  tune.  It  was  the 
sprightly  one-step,  Tingle,  Tingle,  that  .Will  Harper  had 
danced  to,  at  the  Parnasse. 

" — a  man  in  my  position  ought  to  look  ahead.  I've  had 
my  lines  out  for  a  couple  of  years  in  a  business  way.  It 
seems  to  me  that  aeroplanes  are  the  coming  thing,  and  I've 
invested  a  little  already  in  a  company  that  a  French  fellow 
I  know  is  starting.  It  looks  as  if  he  had  worked  out  the 
stabilizer  at  last.  And  if  he  has,  and  can  make  a  real  show- 
ing, I  thought  maybe  I'd  put  a  little  more  in.  You  see — " 

Hilda  was  at  her  wit's  end.  There  was  not  the  slightest 
doubt  now  that  he  was  very  serious  indeed,  dangerous  even. 
She  felt  vaguely  afraid — of  herself  as  well  as  of  him.  She 
•wanted  to  put  her  hands  over  her  ears;  to  sing  out  loud, 
talk  rapidly  and  excitedly,  do  anything  but  listen  to  that 
sober  slow  voice,  with  its  constant  and  fascinating  sugges- 
tion of  unlimited  strength  of  character  in  reserve  behind  it. 


128  THE   HONEY   BEE 

But  instead  of  doing  any  of  these  things,  she  was  fighting 
back  the  soft  smile  that  would  keep  on  hovering  about  her 
mouth.  The  only  thing  she  seemed  able  to  do  with  any 
success  was  to  keep  her  face  turned  so  that  he  could  not  see 
it,  and  gaze  steadily  at  that  beautiful  river. 

" — you  see,  I  wouldn't  be  any  good  in  a  regular  business. 
They'd  go  through  me  in  no  time.  I'd  be  lucky  to  keep  my 
clothes.  But  this  aeroplane  thing  is  a  little  more  in  my 
line.  I  could  take  to  driving  the  machines  myself.  Be  a 
practical  demonstrator,  you  know.  And  then  the  business 
would  have  to  pay  me  something  regular  instead  of  just 
taking  my  money  away  from  me.  I'd  have  to  do  something 
active,  you  see.  I'd  never  be  happy  any  other  way." 

They  had  reached  the  Place  de  la  Concorde.  He  took 
her  arm  again,  and  guided  her  across  the  broad  areas  of 
pavement  from  one  lamplit  isle  to  another.  His  touch  was 
a  caress. 

"I've  wanted  to  talk  this  all  over  with  you  pretty  seri- 
ously, Hilda,  because — well,  I'd  have  to  tell  you  all  about 
how  I'm  fixed  and  what  my  prospects  are  before — " 

Hilda  again  got  her  arm  away,  and  threw  out  both  hands 
in  a  sudden  gesture.  "Don't  let's  talk  seriously !"  she  cried. 
"I  don't  want  to  talk  seriously  I" 

He  made  no  reply  at  all  to  this;  and  they  walked  on  in 
silence. 

The  lights  of  Maxim's  were  just  ahead.  She  could  see 
the  pasty-faced  little  chasseur  at  the  door,  waiting,  in  his 
blue  uniform  and  leather  puttees,  for  the  night's  business 
to  begin ;  and  she  thought  of  Stanley.  Where  was  he  ?  and 
what  was  he  doing?  The  distinctly  unpleasant  thought 
came  to  her  that,  likely  as  not,  he  was  even  now  engaged  in 
the  rather  commonplace  occupation  (among  weak  and  over- 


THE   HONEY   BEE  129 

nervous  men)  known  as  "going  to  pieces."  Just  one  more 
American  in  Paris,  blowing  up.  She  even  felt  a  queer 
twinge  of  conscience,  as  if  she  were,  after  all,  responsible 
for  Stanley. 

She  stole  a  glance  at  her  silent  escort.  His  face  told  her 
nothing.  He  looked  just  as  he  always  looked.  He  was 
silent.  But  then  he  was  often  silent.  She  wondered  what 
he  was  thinking.  Had  she  hurt  him  ?  Or  did  he  just  think 
her  capricious,  "feminine"  ?  He  was  always  kind.  But  he 
didn't  take  women  very  seriously.  It  came  to  her  now  for 
the  first  time  that  he  would  undoubtedly  be  pretty  con- 
servative about  women.  Cruelly  idealistic,  even.  For 
rough  practical  men,  she  knew,  were  often  just  that. 
.  .  .  She  stole  another  glance  at  him,  but  said  nothing. 
It  occurred  to  her,  just  then,  that  it  was  usually  she  who 
broke  the  silences.  She  would  let  him  be  the  first  to  break 
this  one.  It  would  be  a  contest.  She  would  make  him  feel 
her  strength,  as  he  had  so  often  made  her  feel  his. 

So  they  walked  on,  briskly  and  steadily,  side  by  side,  each 
looking  straight  ahead.  Hilda  was  determined  not  to  look 
at  him  again;  and  her  lips  were  compressed.  She  knew, 
without  looking  at  him,  that  his  lips  were  not  compressed, 
that  it  was  literally  no  effort  at  all  for  him  to  control  him- 
self. She  wondered  how  much  of  this  exasperatingly  quiet 
power  of  his  was  real  character,  as  she  understood  the  word, 
and  how  much  was  nothing  more  than  lack  of  imagination. 
Certainly,  however,  positive  or  negative  though  it  might  be, 
the  power  was  there.  It  was  a  fact 

They  came  to  the  end  of  the  street,  crossed  the  Place  de 
la  Madeleine,  and  walked  around  the  great  temple,  in  the 
shadow,  to  the  Rue  Tronchet  and  its  little  tributary  street 
in  which  their  modest  Hotel  de  1'Amerique  was  the  dom- 


130  THE   HONEY   BEE 

inant  structure.  At  the  crossings  lie  would  have  taken  her 
arm  again,  had  she  given  him  the  opportunity.  But  at  each 
she  stepped  off  rapidly  and  a  little  ahead  of  him.  .  .  . 
What  a  man !  He  had  gone  through  an  elaborate  explana- 
tion that  could  have  heen  meant  only  as  the  preliminary 
step  to  a  proposal  of  marriage.  Then,  at  her  first  mild  pro- 
test, he  had  stopped  short.  She  almost  wished  she  had  let 
him  go  through  with  it.  ...  Now  why  had  he  stopped 
in  that  way  ?  She  read  him  for  the  kind  of  man  who  would 
certainly  fight  hard  for  anything  he  really  wanted.  Once 
fully  aroused,  he  would  be  irresistible.  Was  it  that  she  had 
failed  to  stir  him  deeply?  Or  that  he  had  blundered  pre- 
maturely into  his  proposal,  and,  finding  his  mistake,  had 
decided  to  settle  back  and  deliberately  wait  for  a  better 
time  ?  Or  could  it  be  that  he  was  not  analyzing  the  situa- 
tion at  all?  .  .  .  Any  way  she  tried  to  puzzle  it  out, 
she  could  reach  no  other  conclusion  than  that  there  was 
something  in  the  very  texture  of  his  mind  that  lay  outside 
the  range  of  her  experience.  "I  don't  understand  him," 
she  thought.  And  it  nettled  her  that  she  didn't. 

They  entered  the  hotel,  still  without  speaking,  and 
walked  up  the  stairs  side  by  side.  There  was  a  red  carpet 
on  those  stairs,  with  a  green  figure.  Hilda  studied  the  car- 
pet as  she  went  up.  She  had  never  noticed  it  before,  be- 
yond noting  vaguely  that  it  was  there. 

He  came  to  her  door  with  her.  She  opened  it  and  peered 
in.  Adele  was  sitting  there,  in  the  dim  light  from  the 
shaded  electric  lamp.  The  colored  tissue-paper  was  still 
wrapped  about  that  lamp,  that  she  had  put  there  during  her 
first  night  with  the  baby.  That  seemed  a  long  time  ago. 

The  baby  was  sleeping  at  the  moment.  Standing  mo- 
tionless in  the  doorway,  Hilda  could  hear  her  rapid  hoarse 


THE   HONEY   BEE  131 

breaming.  So  everything  was  all  right,  or  as  nearly  all 
right  as  could  be  expected.  She  turned  to  say  good  night 
to  Moran.  She  was  distinctly  tired.  It  was  not  easy  to 
muster  up  a  smile 

He  extended  his  hand. 

She  took  it. 

Then  he  said:  "Good  night,  Hilda.  Get  all  the  sleep 
you  can." 

He  had  spoken  first.  She  had  won.  Even  at  the  moment 
she  knew  well  enough  that  her  sudden  little  uprush  of  jubi- 
lant feeling  was  pure  childishness.  .  .  .  But  was  it, 
though? 

She  replied  with  a  whispered  "Good  night" ;  then  slipped 
into  the  room  and  closed  the  door  softly  behind  her. 

She  went  over  to  Adele,  and  rested  a  light  hand  on  her 
shoulder.  She  felt  in  an  unusually  kindly  frame  of  mind 
toward  Adele;  gentle,  even.  It  occurred  to  her  that  she 
hadn't  fully  realized  before  what  a  really  desperate  condi- 
tion the  girl  was  in,  and  with  what  a  sweet  spirit  she  was 
making  the  best  of  that  situation.  Not  a  word  of  com- 
plaint had  been  heard  from  her. 

Adele  looked  up,  with  a  swift  smile,  and  reached  up  to 
caress  Hilda's  hand. 

Hilda  saw  that  the  girl  had  a  handkerchief  crumpled  in 
her  other  hand,  and  that  she  was  sniffling. 

"You've  been  crying,  child,"  she  whispered. 

Adele's  smile  lingered.  "It's  my  cold,  mostly,"  she  re- 
plied. "I  seem  to  have  caught  it  from  the  baby." 

"Then  you  go  right  to  bed  and  get  some  rest.  I'll  get 
into  a  negligee  and  lie  down  in  here." 

When  Adele  had  gone,  Hilda  reflected,  standing  at  her 
wardrobe  trunk  and  swinging  the  clothes  hangers,  that 


132  THE   HONEY   BEE 

were  crowded  with  suits,  frocks,  wraps  and  dainty  things : 
"That  poor  child  doesn't  even  own  a  negligee  to  get  into. 
I  must  give  her  some  things  to  wear.  She  is  nearly  my 
height — they  won't  need  much  altering.  She  is  such  a  sim- 
ple, honest  little  thing,  I  know  she  would  be  grateful." 


XI 


HILDA  EECEIVES  A  LETTEK,  WHICH  SHE  WILL  OPEN  IN  A 
TEW  MINUTES 

HILDA  was  up  with,  the  baby  at  intervals  all  night. 
And  Adele  was  in  and  out,  most  of  the  time  with  a 
slim  forefinger  pressed  against  her  upper  lip  to  keep  back 
the  sneeze. 

"Adele,"  Hilda  said,  toward  morning,  "don't  run  around 
in  your  nightgown,  child!  You'll  simply  bring  yourself 
down  sick.  Somebody's  got  to  keep  well  around  here,  or 
there  will  be  a  smash." 

Adele,  obedient,  put  on  her  long  boyish  overcoat;  even 
lay  down  in  it,  across  her  bed,  in  order  to  be  ready  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice  to  come  to  Hilda's  assistance. 

Hilda  herself  thought  of  many  things  during  those  long 
half -hours  of  standing  or  sitting  by  the  basket ;  or  when  she 
was  heating  bottles,  or  putting  coal  on  the  fire,  or  standing 
in  the  window  looking  down  into  the  quiet  street.  Over  in 
the  Eue  Tronchet  it  was  not  so  quiet,  for  the  carts  and 
wagons  of  the  vegetable  men  were  clanging  over  the  pave- 
ment on  their  way  to  early  morning  market. 

A  hundred  times  during  the  long  night  she  thought  of 
her  odd  little  scene  with  Moran.  She  wondered  what  he 
was  thinking.  It  occurred  to  her  that  he  was  doubtless 
Bleeping  like  a  healthy  child.  Then  she  fell  to  wondering 

133 


134  THE    HONEY   BEE 

what  he  would  say  at  their  next  meeting.    In  the  morning 
this  would  be,  surely. 

But  in  the  morning  the  baby  was  distinctly  weaker ;  and 
Adele  was  crawling  about  with  a  hard  cold  and  an  aching 
back.     Moran,  when  he  came  in,  appeared  not  to  have  a 
personal  thought  in  his  head.     He  studied  Adele  rather ' 
closely,  then  slipped  back  to  his  own  room  and  got  an  * 
atomizer  for  Hilda.     "Better  use  it,"  he  said.     "It  will 
keep  this  cold  from  getting  hold  of  you,  I  think."     For 
which  Hilda  thanked  him. 

The  English  chorus  girls  had  been  little  in  evidence 
of  late,  beyond  making  daily  inquiries.  But  on  this 
morning — along  toward  noon — Hilda  called  Millicent  in 
to  stay  with  Adele  and  the  baby  while  she  went  out.  She 
felt  none  too  well  herself;  a  breath  of  air  would  clear  her 
head  for  the  anxiety  and  strain  that  were  plainly  to  be  her 
portion.  She  had  let  her  mail  go  for  several  days;  and 
now  decided  that  the  short  walk  over  to  the  American  Ex- 
press office  would  give  her  the  necessary  outing  and  at 
the  same  time  enable  her  to  catch  up  somewhat  in  her  own 
affairs. 

She  felt  rather  uncomfortable  in  the  prospect  of  this 
errand.  So  many  Americans  drift  through  those  big  of- 
fices at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Auber  and  the  Rue  Scribe. 
Indeed,  the  entire  neighborhood  of  the  Place  de  1'OpSra 
seems  sometimes  to  be  little  more  than  a  promenade  for 
English-speaking  travelers.  And  she  herself  was  now  sup- 
posed to  be  traveling — somewhere  in  the  French  Provinces, 
on  the  Riviera,  in  Italy,  at  winter  sports  in  Switzerland — 
anywhere  but  here.  It  simply  would  not  do  for  any  of  her 
acquaintances  to  see  her.  Of  course,  there  were  possible  ex- 
planations. But  she  must  not  permit  herself  to  be  caught  in 
a  situation  that  would  call  for  explanations.  Her  story  was 


THE   HOXEY   BEE  135 

complex  enough  now.  She  thought,  with  a  bitter  half -smile, 
as  she  stepped  out  of  the  hotel,  of  her  unexpected  encoun- 
ter with  Stanley,  and  of  that  irritating  moment  when  she 
had  been  compelled  to  walk  away  from  the  waiting  taxi 
because  it  would  not  do  for  Stanley  to  overhear  her  address. 

And  she  had  had  two  or  three  narrow  escapes.  One  aft- 
ernoon, as  she  and  Moran  were  crossing  the  Champs  Ely- 
sees,  a  big  motor-car  had  nearly  run  them  down.  Seated  in 
the  limousine,  with  an  enameled  beauty  of  the  boulevards  at 
his  side,  was  old  M.  Armandeville — stiffly  erect,  eyeglasses 
on  nose,  pointed  gray  beard  sticking  out  aggressively  be- 
fore him.  He  had  not  seen  her.  She  was  sure  of  that. 
But  suppose  he  had — she,  the  extraordinarily  moral  crea- 
ture from  America,  who  had  rebuked  him  with  an  air  so 
superior  to  his  frankly  human  weakness,  who  had  an- 
nounced that  she  was  to  be  traveling  somewhere  "with 
friends,"  calmly  walking  the  Champs  Elysees  in  the  friendly 
company  of  a  big  roughish  man  with  a  strong  face  and  a 
Gothic  eyelid! — What  would  he  think?  Or  rather — and 
that  fleeting  bitter  smile  came  again — what  wouldn't  he 
think!  Paris  being  what  it  is!  ...  On  another  oc- 
casion she  had  passed  Mr.  Levy  on  the  boulevard  near  the 
Grand  Hotel.  And  ship  acquaintances.  One  group  she 
had  been  forced  to  bow  to.  What  if  they  should  happen  to 
meet  certain  other  persons!  Likely  as  not,  this  very  co- 
incidence would  work  out.  Eor  that  is  what  inevitably 
happens,  she  reflected,  when  one  sets  out  on  a  course  of 
deception.  Even  of  justifiable  deception. 

One  man  she  had  avoided  only  by  stepping  swiftly  into 
a  shop  door.  He  was  Abraham  Kutzner,  of  the  New  York 
house  of  Kutzner  &  Co.,  a  very  rich  Jew,  now  more  or  less 
withdrawn  from  active  business,  who  was  living  in  Paris 
and  acquiring  a  sort  of  culture  for  use  in  his  later  years. 


136  THE    HONEY   BEE 

Kutzner  knew  nearly  every  one  that  she  herself  knew  in 
the  department  store  universe.  M.  Armandeville  was  his 
close  associate.  At  times,  even,  to  her  decided  discomfort 
of  mind,  he  had  ranked  himself  among  her  own  pursuers. 
...  So  she  slipped  into  a  doorway  while  he  walked  mag- 
nificently by. 

She  decided  to  keep  off  the  boulevards  altogether  on  this 
occasion.  She  walked  around  to  the  Eue  Auber  by  way  of 
the  Eue  des  Mathurins. 

It  occurred  to  her  that  she  must  be  more  careful  about 
appearing  on  the  streets  with  Moran.  She  would  walk 
with  him  only  in  the  evenings  after  this.  It  did  not  occur 
to  her  that  this  decision  was  in  the  nature  of  an  admission 
of  her  growing  attachment  for  him,  that  there  was  self- 
consciousness,  as  well  as  caution,  in  her  attitude;  for  her 
thoughts  had  suddenly  taken  a  new  direction.  How  could 
she  be  sure  that  Stanley  had  not  already  seen  her!  And 
with  Moran!  She  had  glimpsed  him  at  one  of  his  worst 
moments ;  and  he  did  not  know.  It  was  every  whit  as  likely 
that  he  might  right  now  have  grounds  for  a  new  and  curious 
attitude  toward  her.  And  this  directly  after  she  had  so  in- 
discreetly told  him  of  her  own  early  love  for  Harris 
Doreyn ! 

Why  had  she  told  him  that?  Stanley  Aitcheson,  of  all 
persons  .  .  .  her  deepest  secret!  And  why  had  that 
miserable  old  sorrow  arisen  at  all  in  her  thoughts  after  all 
these  years?  ...  It  occurred  to  her  now  that  she  must 
close  her  mind  to  these  memories.  And  she  must  stop  talk- 
ing about  Harris  Doreyn — must  stop  this  occasional  quot- 
ing of  bits  of  his  philosophy  that  had  so  largely,  during 
the  years,  become  her  own  philosophy.  She  had  quoted 
him  to  Moran  on  several  occasions.  Doubtless  to  others. 
Perhaps  it  had  come  to  be  more  of  a  habit  than  she  real- 


THE   HOXEY   BEE  137 

ized,  this  bringing  up  the  name  of  the  man  who  had  stirred 
and  influenced  her  so  vitally,  years  back,  when  she  was 
younger  and  life  was  brighter  and  richer  in  promise.  She 
decided  to  be  more  careful  about  this. 

There  is  a  cafe  at  the  farthest  corner  of  the  Rue  des 
Mathurins  and  the  Eue  Auber.  As  she  turned  the  corner 
she  happened  to  glance  across  the  street.  There,  at  one  of 
the  half  dozen  little  iron  and  marble  tables  on  the  sidewalk, 
sat  Stanley.  His  chair  was  close  to  a  charcoal  brazier.  His 
overcoat  was  buttoned  to  his  chin,  the  collar  turned  up 
about  his  ears.  He  was  drinking  something — a  highball — 
judging  by  the  soda  bottle  at  his  elbow.  Even  at  that  dis- 
tance she  could  see  that  there  was  no  color  in  his  face.  And 
he  was  drinking  in  the  morning! 

He  did  not  see  her.  A  brief  moment  and  she  had  lost 
him  behind  the  cab  rank  that  occupied  the  middle  of  the 
street.  Once  out  of  his  possible  sight  she  walked  more 
slowly.  The  feeling  of  responsibility  for  him  surged  again 
within  her.  She  wondered  what  he  was  up  to.  It  was  not 
really  her  responsibility,  of  course.  But  she  had  seen  hu- 
man wrecks  before  this.  And  surely  Stanley  was  close  to 
the  breakers.  She  stopped,  irresolute,  with  the  pretense 
of  studying  a  shop  window.  It  was  quite  possible  that  the 
boy  had  no  money.  At  the  pace  at  which  he  had  been 
moving  even  considerable  sums  will  melt  like  the  morn- 
ing dew. 

For  a  moment  she  even  considered  crossing  the  street 
and  speaking  to  him.  Then  reconsidered.  It  wouldn't  do. 
He  would  be  at  her  heels  again.  There  would  be  infinite 
complications.  Worse,  there  would  be  reproaches;  brain- 
storms, likely.  She  thought  of  the  baby,  lying  helpless  in 
its  basket.  ISTo,  Stanley  would  have  to  find  himself.  She 
walked  on. 


138  THE   HONEY  BEE 

There  was  tHe  possibility,  the  probability  even,  of  meeting 
him  before  she  could  get  safely  away  from  the  American 
Express  offices.  But  this  did  not  occur.  And  with  her  two 
letters  unopened  in  her  hand  she  hurried  out  and  walked 
clear  around  by  way  of  the  Boulevard  Haussmann  in  order 
to  avoid  passing  that  little  cafe. 

Back  in  the  Eue  Tronchet,  she  opened  one  of  her  letters 
and  read  it,  walking  slowly.  It  was  from  Joe  Hemstead, 
and  had  to  do  with  this  very  matter  of  Stanley.  She  was 
glad  now  that  she  had  not  spoken  to  him. 

"I  have  written  Levy,"  so  ran  the  letter,  "asking  him  to 
hunt  the  boy  up,  buy  his  steamer  ticket,  give  him  what 
little  money  he  may  actually  need,  and  ship  him  back. 
'Also  I  have  written  Aitcheson  himself,  care  of  the  Ameri- 
can Express — he'll  look  in  there,  almost  certainly — and 
have  cabled  Ed  Johnson  to  have  an  eye  out  for  him.  I 
hope  he  won't  make  you  any  trouble,  just  now,  as  you  are 
beginning  your  vacation,  but  if  he  does,  you  had  better 
just  use  your  judgment  about  calling  on  Levy  to  handle 
him  for  you.  Of  course  you  know  that  the  Armandeville 
people  will  do  everything  possible  for  you  at  any  time. 
Don't  hesitate  to  call  on  them.  And  the  best  of  luck  to 
yourself!  Take  plenty  of  time.  Don't  think  of  coming 
back  until  you  are  in  the  best  of  health  and  ready  to  tackle 
all  sorts  of  problems  with  enthusiasm.  That's  your  job  for 
the  present — to  make  yourself  fit.  And  the  more  you  en- 
joy yourself  over  there,  the  fitter  you'll  be  when  you  re- 
turn. .  .  ." 

So  much  for  Stanley!  He  would  be  looked  out  for, 
which  was  a  relief. 

She  did  not  think  of  the  other  letter  until  she  was  enter- 
ing the  hotel.  On  the  stairs  she  glanced  at  it,  but  the  light 
was  not  very  good.  It  had  been  addressed  in  longhand — 
"Miss  Hilda  Wilson,  care  the  Hartman  Store,  New  York" 


THE   HOXEY   BEE  139 

— and  then  redirected  from  her  own  office.  She  recog- 
nized the  neat  penmanship  of  her  stenographer,  Grace 
Mahan. 

She  paused  on  the  landing  and  looked  at  it  under  the 
light.  There  was  something  familiar  about  that  hand.  She 
held  it  closer  to  the  light.  Then  came  a  sudden  quickening 
of  her  pulse,  and  she  began  to  feel  that  pressure  at  her 
temples  and  in  the  back  of  her  head  that  had  for  months 
now  been  a  familiar  fact  in  her  life. 

She  knew  that  hand.  She  slipped  her  thumb  under  the 
flap  of  the  envelope,  then  hesitated  to  open  it.  Her  color 
^was  running  high,  absurdly  high.  She  could  feel  it. 

What  could  be  in  that  envelope !  Not  a  long  communi- 
|cation,  for  it  was  thin.  She  held  it  up  again,  and  stared 
'at  the  rather  large  handwriting.  There  was  only  one  per- 
son in  the  world  who  formed  an  "H"  in  just  that  way — 
.with  a  loop  of  the  cross-mark  about  the  first  upright  stroke. 
She  had  seen  it  so  many  thousands  of  times — in  his  own 
'signature,  in  bits  of  office  memoranda,  in  countless  notes 
.to  herself,  during  those  puzzling,  tempestuous,  and  finally 
;bitter  years. 

Again  she  slipped  her  thumb  under  the  flap  of  the  en- 
velope. 

There  was  a  quick  step  on  the  stairs,  beneath  her.  She 
turned.  It  was  the  doctor.  He  always  ran  up  the  stairs, 
•that  doctor,  despite  his  considerable  burden  of  years  and 
his  long  residence  among  the  leisurely  folk  of  Paris.  She 
liked  him. 

|     "Moran  just  sent  for  me/'  he  said,  with  his  usual  offhand 
nod. 

She  hurried  after  him  to  her  own  room. 

Adele,  half  ill  now,  and  Moran  were  there.  Millicent 
was  just  leaving,  with  alarm  on  her  soft  pretty  face. 


140  THE   HONEY   BEE 

The  baby  had  come,  during  Hilda's  brief  absence,  to  a 
downright  struggle  for  breath,  to  something  almost  like  a 
collapse. 

The  doctor  took  sharp  hold.  He  first  ordered  Adele  to 
bed.  He  instructed  Hilda  to  heat  some  water,  and  then, 
while  this  rather  slow  process  was  under  way,  opened  his 
medicine  chest  and  administered  some  sort  of  stimulant. 
Himself,  he  undressed  the  baby;  telling  Moran  over  his 
shoulder,  to  prepare  the  little  tub  on  a  convenient  chair 
and  bring  a  bath  towel. 

.  Hilda  got  her  bath  thermometer,  and,  following  instruc- 
tions, filled  the  tub  half  full  of  the  hot  water,  adding  cold 
water  until  it  stood  at  a  temperature  of  one  hundred  de-  j 
grees  Fahrenheit.  Then  the  doctor,  with  deft  hands,  threw 
off  the  covers,  laid  the  baby  on  the  bath  towel,  which  he 
then  gathered  up  at  the  ends  like  a  hammock,  and  lowered 
the  thin  little  body  into  the  bath  until  only  the  face  was 
above  water. 

Hilda  stood,  started,  breathless  even,  looking  on.  But 
Moran,  after  a  moment,  relieved  the  doctor;  who  then 
asked  Hilda  for  a  blanket,  which  he  spread  out  on  the  bed. 

For  upward  of  ten  minutes,  Moran  kept  the  baby  there, 
holding  the  two  gathered  ends  of  the  towel  in  his  big 
hands,  carefully  keeping  the  little  face  clear  of  the  water. 
Then  the  doctor  had  him  bring  her  to  the  bed,  and  him- 
self, very  gently,  laid  her  on  the  woolen  blankets  and  cov- 
ered her  warmly.  To  Hilda's  surprise,  the  baby  dropped 
off  into  the  quietest  sleep  she  had  had  for  days. 

Hilda  followed  the  doctor  into  the  hall,  and  drew  the 
door  to  behind  her. 

"Tell  me,  please,"  she  said,  "exactly  what  you  think  ?" 

The  doctor  met  her  gaze.  If  he  felt  any  curiosity  about 
her,  it  was  not  apparent.  Had  Hilda  been  thinking  of  her- 


THE   HONEY   BEE  141 

sei5r,  she  would  have  realized  that  there  was  a  very  friendly 
directness  about  that  gaze  of  his.  But  at  the  moment  she 
was  not  thinking  of  herself. 

"It  is  impossible  to  say,"  he  replied.  "Of  course,  as 
you  can  see,  the  child  won't  be  able  to  endure  very  much 
of  this  sort  of  thing.  But  on  the  other  hand,  there  may 
not  be  so  much  more  of  it  to  endure.  In  another  day  or  so 
we  shall  know."  He  added  a  few  clear  instructions,  and 
went  away. 

Moran,  when  Hilda  reentered  the  room,  was  sitting  be- 
side the  bed,  carefully  holding  up  the  heavy  folds  of  the 
blanket  so  that  they  would  not  weigh  down  too  heavily  on 
the  baby's  chest. 

"He  says,"  whispered  Hilda,  "that  if  she  has  any  more 
of  those  attacks  we're  to  do  the  same  thing — the  warm 
bath — a  hundred  degrees.  And  we're  not  to  dress  her  at 
all  before  he  comes  again.  Just  keep  her  warm,  and  have 
plenty  of  air.  .  .  .  He  left  a  prescription  for  Adele, 
didn't  he?" 

"On  the  bureau,"  Moran  replied,  without  looking  up. 
"If  you'll  sit  here  and  hold  this  blanket,  Hilda,  I'll  take 
it  out  and  have  it  filled." 

So  she  took  his  place;  and  he  left. 

She  had  dropped  Doreyn's  letter  on  a  chair  by  the  door 
along  with  her  wrist-bag,  muff  and  gloves.  She  looked 
over  now  and  saw  it  lying  there.  It  was  the  first  communi- 
cation from  him  in — she  had  been  with  the  Hartman  store 
eight  years  and  a  few  months — it  was  three  years  after 
that,  in  January,  five  years  back,  that  they  had  given  her 
Mrs.  Hanford's  desk  on  the  fifth  floor,  in  the  corner  be- 
hind the  stock  cabinets,  and  had  sent  her  on  her  first  inde- 
pendent trip  to  Paris.  Before  that  she  had  come  as  Mrs. 
Hanford's  assistant.  And  it  was  just  before  making  that 


142  THE   HONEY   BEE 

first  trip  under  the  new  responsibilities,  with  the  new  sal- 
ary that  had  quite  taken  her  breath  away,  that  she  had 
gone  out  to  Indiana  to  see  her  mother  and  Harry  and 
Margie  and  bring  them  the  glad  news.  And  Harris 
Doreyn  was  on  that  train !  She  had  met  him  face  to  face 
in  the  aisle  of  the  sleeping  car.  Yes,  it  was  five  years 
since  she  had  seen  him  or  heard  from  him;  five  years  and 
one  month. 

It  came  back  to  her  with  a  rush — incidents  that  she 
thought  she  had  forgotten — their  stiffness  and  the  little 
difficulties  of  readjustment,  for  they  had  not  met  for 
three  years  before  that.  She  said  things  that  sounded  cold, 
hard  even.  She  put  on  a  casual  manner  that,  she  could 
see,  disturbed  him.  Somehow  their  minds,  or  their  talk 
at  least,  went  at  cross-purposes  that  day.  Some  of  the 
things  she  said  definitely  hurt  him.  Then  she  could  have 
bitten  her  tongue  out,  for  she  knew  so  well  the  depth  and 
mental  honesty  and  loyalty  of  the  man ;  but  her  pride  kept 
her  deeper  feelings  back.  Then — she  remembered  it  so 
well  now — he  grew  moody  and  silent,  and  the  old  melan- 
choly that  she  had  seen  there  in  the  worst  days  of  his 
struggles  came  into  his  lean  face.  And  that  had  silenced 
her  utterly. 

There  was  something  disturbing  in  the  vividness  of  these 
sudden  memories — in  the  thought  that  they  could  be  so 
vivid  after  the  years.  She  had  lived  through  so  much,  and 
had  changed  so.  It  was  not  altogether  pleasant  to  reflect 
on  some  of  these  changes  in  herself.  She  had  become  more 
efficient,  harder  headed,  less  easily  moved  by  sentiment.  Or 
so  she  would  have  supposed.  Yet  the  mere  holding  in  her 
hand  of  an  envelope  addressed  to  her  by  this  man  had 
stirred  her. 

More  and  more  vividly  it  came  back  to  her.    The  curious. 


THE   HOXEY   BEE  143 

half-spoken  quarrel — about  nothing  whatever  but  the  in- 
tensity of  the  emotions  they  had  once  shared  and  the  dis- 
tance in  time  and  new  habits  that  had  come  between  them. 
The  dinner  together  in  the  dining  car,  with  its  undertone 
of  the  old  furtiveness,  its  spasmodic  efforts  at  avoiding 
vital  topics — the  vital  topic.  The  moment,  in  passing  from 
car  to  car,  when  he  had  caught  her  arm  to  steady  her,  had 
gripped  her  tightly,  had  drawn  her  back  against  him.  The 
uprushing  of  all  the  confusions  that  she  had  thought  put 
forever  behind  her.  Then  that  sense  of  outraged  conven- 
tion, the  old  dread  of  being  seen  with  him,  the  fear  of  scan- 
dal that  might  so  easily  and  casually  blast  her  life  and 
turn  the  new  brilliant  promise  of  success  into  the  most 
pitiless  of  failures.  .  .  .  The  fact  that  here  they  were, 
he  and  she,  together  in  a  sleeping  car,  bound  for  the  West, 
had  suddenly  rushed  upon  her  with  a  new  and  blinding 
force.  The  thought,  too,  that  this  very  car  was  bearing 
Mm  straight  to  that  other  woman  who  publicly  asserted  her 
right  to  him.  She  had  become  suddenly  afraid  of  him; 
afraid  of  that  hostile  driving  thing  men  call  Society; 
even  afraid  of  herself.  How  could  she  face  her  mother  and 
sister  and  brother!  She  had  left  New  York  full  of  new 
aims  and  high  hopes  and  exuberant  happiness.  .  .  .  So, 
once  again  she  had  lost  herself  in  a  very  panic  of  the  soul. 
She  had  begged  him  to  help  her  by  leaving  her — heedless 
of  everything  on  earth  but  the  dangers  she  felt — heedless, 
quite,  of  him. 

And  he  had  left  Her,  dropping  off  the  train  somewhere 
in  Pennsylvania.  She  could  see  him  now — standing  there 
among  the  shadows  of  a  station  platform,  gripping  the 
handle  of  his  suit-case  with  one  lean  hand,  his  umbrella 
with  the  other — a  rather  gaunt  man,  slightly  bent  but 
strong;  a  white  face,  almost  a  gray  face;  deepset  eyes,  that 


144  THE   HONEY   BEE 

had  always  looked  tenderly  on  her  and  with  a  haunting 
sorrow.  .  .  .  She  had  never  so  much  as  known  the 
name  of  that  station  in  Pennsylvania.  She  did  not  be- 
lieve that,  at  the  moment,  he  knew  it  either.  ...  She 
had  not  seen  him  since.  And  he  had  not  written.  Not  un- 
til now. 

She  collected  her  thoughts,  and  bent  over  the  baby. 
Without  conscious  effort  she  had  been  holding  the  blanket 
off  the  baby's  chest,  as  she  had  observed  Moran  doing.  She 
wondered  how  he  had  happened  to  think  of  that.  It  was 
so  plainly  the  right  thing  to  do,  once  you  had  thought  of 
it.  ...  The  baby  was  still  sleeping. 

Hilda  propped  her  chin  on  her  hand.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments she  would  read  that  letter.  When  Moran  should 
return.  He  would  not  be  long.  She  propped  her  chin  on 
her  free  hand,  and  thought  very  soberly. 

The  unexpected,  if  relatively  faint,  stirring  up  of  that 
old  emotional  storm  had  brought  her  a  sense  of  sheer  hurt, 
of  pain.  She  did  not  like  to  be  stirred  in  that  way.  It 
shook  the  foundations  of  her  life.  And  it  was  so  useless. 
Even  if  Doreyn  were  free,  she  felt  that  she  could  never 
again  turn  toward  him.  Why,  since  the  first  great  tempta- 
tion to  give  herself,  her  whole  mature  life  had  really  begun, 
had  settled  its  direction.  The  impressionable  girl  he  had 
known,  aquiver  with  ideals  and  romantic  impulses,  had 
died.  Succeeding  that  child  had  grown  up  a  sophisticated 
woman — a  practical  woman,  of  fixed  habit.  It  was  unthink- 
able now  that  she  should  give  up  her  independent  per- 
sonality and  mold  her  life  upon  the  life  of  a  man.  The 
wonderful  power  of  youth  to  idealize  and  worship  the  man 
had  died  when  the  girl  in  her  died.  She  knew  men  too  well 
now.  And  the  knowledge  had  embittered  her. 

Even  if  she  could  go  back  to  that  stirring  love  of  her 


THE   HONEY   BEE  145 

fresh  young  womanhood,  Doreyn  was  not  free.  There  was 
his  wife,  his  home — and  the  two  girls.  They  must  be  grown 
now,  those  girls.  She  remembered  them,  in  another  vivid 
picture,  as  they  sometimes  came  into  the  office.  He  was 
always  gentle  with  them.  It  had  bewildered  her  to  think 
of  that  side  of  his  life.  Sometimes  it  had  tortured  her. 
For  it  was  always  between  them.  It  had  been  the  un- 
spoken cause  of  most  of  the  queer  sudden  quarrels  they  had 
had — sudden  clashings  of  two  tortured  natures. 

No,  she  couldn't  take  up  the  old  threads.    Not  ever. 

But  if  that  was  so,  why  should  they  still  be  here,  in  her 
life,  tugging  pitilessly  at  her  heart?  Why  should  her 
past  have  this  power  to  torment  her,  to  rouse  old  emotions 
and  taunt  her  with  visions  of  the  impossible ! 

No,  she  could  never  resume  those  feelings.  She  might 
weaken,  undermined  by  these  deep  human  hungers  that 
came.  She  might  have  to  have  love.  It  was  quite  possible. 
It  happened  to  many,  many  women.  To  most,  in  fact. 
But  if  she  should  weaken,  and  marry,  there  would  be  no 
blaze  of  romantic  feeling.  She  felt  pretty  certain  of  this.  If 
anything,  it  would  be  a  need — at  best,  a  friendly  arrange- 
ment of  lives.  And  with  some  mature  man.  She  certainly 
could  not  permit  her  life  to  be  torn  to  pieces  by  an  exact- 
ing emotional  boy. 

Further,  it  would  never  be  with  Doreyn.  That  expert 
ence  had  been  wonderful  and,  at  times,  dreadful.  It  had 
been  the  one  great  stirring  influence  in  her  life.  But  it 
belonged  in  the  past.  .  .  .  No,  she  would  have  to  be- 
gin fresh  with  some  one — some  one  who  did  not  know  her 
too  well,  so  that  there  might  at  least  be  little  surprises, 
and  the  possibility  of  growth;  some  one  with  whom  she 
had  never  exchanged  reproaches,  and  toward  whom  she 
had  never  been  bitter.  To  keep  as  near  the  surface  of  life 


146  THE   HONEY   BEE 

as  possible,  even  in  matters  of  the  emotions — that  was  the 
thing  now. 

She  wondered,  with  a  sudden  inner  tightening,  if  she 
was  too  old  to  have  a  baby.  Thirty-two — surely  not.  Even 
thirty-three  or  four.  Though  it  would  be  very  hard, 
doubtless. 

She  was  thinking  in  circles.  She  felt  bewildered.  And 
the  hurt  was  still  there.  For  years  she  had  worked  hard, 
hard,  to  cover  that  hurt.  During  the  early  years  of  her  suc- 
cess, she  had  covered  it.  She  had  been  able  almost  to  smile 
at  it.  But  now  that  the  thrill  of  success  had  tamed  down 
into  routine,  now  that  she  was  tired  and  unable  to  work", 
here  was  the  hurt,  apparently  as  strong  as  ever,  leaping  at 
her.  .  .  .  He  had  succeeded.  And  without  her.  At 
the  thought  she  compressed  her  lips. 

She  felt  a  draft  of  air.  She  reached  over  for  one  of  the 
pillows  and  put  it  back  of  the  baby's  head. 

Her  thoughts  were  still  running  loose.  She  recalled 
Moran's  little  discourse  on  bees,  and  the  queer  analogy  it 
had  started  in  her  mind.  She  dwelt  on  that  analogy.  She 
had  never  been  given  to  theorizing  or  generalizing;  but 
now  she  thought — 

"I'm  a  good  deal  like  that  worker  bee  Blink  talked 
about.  The  unsexed  female  that  does  nothing  but  work." 
A  bitter  half-smile  flickered  about  her  mouth ;  then  it  died, 
and  her  eyes  became  wet  and  big.  "That's  it,  I  guess.  The 
unsexed  females  that  do  the  work.  Come  to  think  of  it 
there  are  lots  of  women  like  me.  Thousands  and  thou- 
sands. Of  course.  The  business  world  is  full  of  them. 
And  mostly  they  just  work  and  work  until  they  die;  or 
give  up  and  marry  for  a  home  and  a  living.  They  don't 
have  love  or  babies — or  if  love  does  come,  it's  likely  to  be 
wrong,  just  a  demoralizing  thing.  But  what  can  you  ex- 


THE   HONEY   BEE  147 

pect,  if  you  let  thousands  of  them  go  into  business,  and 
work  with  men,  and  help  them  day  by  day — big  men,  too. 
Things  are  bound  to  happen.  And  then  it's  wrong,  and 
there's  trouble — for  the  girl.  Always  trouble  for  the  girl. 
The  only  possible  way  she  can  save  herself  is  by  giving  up 
her  independence.  And  yet  her  independence  is  all  she 
has.  Then  it  is  like  the  time  Blink  spoke  of,  when  there 
isn't  enough  work  for  the  bee,  and  she  gets  demoralized 
and  tastes  honey,  gets  drunk  on  honey,  takes  to  fighting 
and  robbing  other  hives.  .  .  ." 

Her  thoughts  were  arrested.  They  had  turned,  sharply 
and  unexpectedly,  on  herself,  on  her  tired,  bewildered  self. 

"Why,  that's  me,"  she  breathed.  "With  the  work  gone 
—demoralized — tasting  honey — getting  drunk  on  honey — 
no  good  for  anything  but  work,  no  good  without  it — taking 
to  robbing  other  hives  .  .  ." 

She  stared  down  at  the  sleeping  child.  Suddenly  she 
bent  over  and  clasped  her  hands,  tenderly,  carefully,  at 
the  edge  of  the  pillow  behind  the  little  dark  head.  Sobs 
came.  She  fought  them  back.  Her  tears  fell  hot  into  the 
folds  of  the  blanket. 

"Oh,"  she  whispered,  "we're  going  to  save  you,  Little 
Blessing !  And  I'll  keep  you.  Yes,  I'll  keep  you  for  my 
own.  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  home,  and  send  you  to 
school,  and  buy  you  pretty  little  frocks,  and  tie  ribbons  in 
your  hair.  If  I  can't  have  love — if  it's  too  late  for  love — 
perhaps  they'll  let  me  have  you !" 

She  seemed  to  hear  the  door  open.  But  her  thoughts 
raced  on: 

"Yes,  I'm  a  worker  bee.  I've  lost  my  work,  and  I'm 
demoralized.  I'm  tasting  honey.  Maybe  I'm  honey  drunk 
right  now.  If  I  am,  I  can't  help  it.  It's  not  my  fault. 
I've  done  my  best,  worked  my  hardest — and  I've  got  to 


148  THE   HONEY   BEE 

live  my  life.  'One  way  or  another,  I've  got  to  live  my 
life !" 

A  big  hand  settled  lightly  on  her  shoulder.  She  felt 
that  hand,  with  a  dangerous  intensity,  in  every  nerve-fiber 
in  her  body.  She  stirred — hesitated — stirred  again — then 
nervously  shook  the  hand  off.  This  sort  of  thing  could  do 
no  good — it  merely  added  to  the  difficulties,  made  it  harder 
to  think.  And  think  she  must,  somehow,  if  she  was  not 
to  lose  her  grip  altogether. 

She  looked  up  at  him  through  her  tears,  at  her  big 
steady  helper  who  on  only  one  brief  occasion  had  seemed 
to  be  thinking  of  himself.  Then,  before  she  could  realize 
what  she  was  about,  she  had  caught  at  his  hand,  and 
gripped  it. 

"Oh,  Blink,"  she  whispered,  "we've  got  to  save  her! 
We've  got  to !" 

"I  think,"  said  he,  "that  we  will.  Nothing  happened, 
has  there?" 

Hilda  shook  her  head.  "No,  she  has  been  just  like  this. 
I  can  hardly  believe  it.  Isn't  it  wonderful !" 

He  hung  his  hat,  as  usual,  on  the  bed-post;  then,  with 
the  hand  she  had  left  to  him,  fumbled  in  the  pocket  of  his 
overcoat  and  produced  a  small  parcel.  "Here's  Adele'e 
medicine,  Hilda.  Better  give  it  to  her  right  away." 


XII 


IN  WHICH  HILDA  PERCEIVES,  JUST  AHEAD,  THE  CROSSROADS 
OF  LIFE,  AND  SPECULATES  RATHER  DEEPLY.  ALSO  THERE 
IS  A  SMALL  CONFLICT  IN  HEE  BOOM,  WON,  AS  IT  HAP- 
PENS, BY  ADELE 

SHE  took  the  medicine  in  to  Adele,  and  gave  it  to  her. 
"When  she  reentered  her  own  room,  Moran  was  sitting 
quietly  by  the  baby. 

Hilda  glanced  once,  then  again,  at  the  unopened  letter, 
lying  there  on  the  chair  by  the  door. 

She  picked  it  up,  and  with  an  effort  at  an  offhand  man- 
ner walked  to  the  window  with  it.  She  stood  looking  down 
into  the  street,  tapping  the  envelope  lightly  against  her 
finger-tips.  Then  she  opened  it. 

There  was  his  name,  at  the  bottom — curiously  enough, 
written  in  full — Harris  Doreyn.  She  wondered  why  he 
had  done  that.  Did  he  suppose  she  would  ever  forget  that 
old  familiar  "H" — or  a  single  stroke  of  his  hand,  for  that 
matter  ?  Still,  she  liked  this  better.  For  there  was  noth- 
ing furtive  about  that  full  name.  And  he  had  always 
hated  the  furtive  as  much  as  she.  Perhaps  he  had  done 
this  to  show  her  that  there  was  no  shame  in  his  heart. 
.  .  .  Though  doubtless  she  was  making  too  much  of  a 
small  matter. 

The  date  was  three  weeks  old.  He  was  wondering,  per- 
haps, why  she  had  not  replied. 

149 


150  THE   HONEY   BEE 

The  letter  itself  consisted  of  thirteen  words — "May  I 
have  a  talk  with  you  ?  I  will  come  to  New  York." 

That  was  all.  She  read  these  words  a  number  of  times. 
Then  she  carefully  refolded  the  paper,  and  slipped  it  back 
into  the  envelope. 

She  might  cable  him,  so  that  he  would  understand  the 
long  delay.  But  no — that  would  suggest  eagerness.  She 
simply  must  not  do  anything  that  would  stir  him  or  stim- 
ulate a  new  friendship  between  them. 

She  could  not  write  refusing  to  see  him.  That  would 
be  a  flat  discourtesy.  But  she  knew  now  that  she  didn't 
want  to  see  him.  It  might  stir  up  again  in  both  the 
curious  passion  that  vibrated  so  swiftly  between  quarrels 
and  love.  An  utterly  unreasonable,  fierce  passion  theirs 
had  become  before  she  broke  off. 

To  write  now,  after  this  delay,  agreeing  to  a  meeting, 
seemed  somehow  to  be  making  too  much  of  it.  If  she  could 
have  received  the  letter  at  her  desk  in  New  York,  two  days 
after  he  had  written  it,  she  might  have  replied  directly  but 
casually,  arranged  for  the  talk,  and  got  it  over  with.  But 
the  delay  had  the  effect  of  intensifying  the  situation. 

She  wondered  what  definite  thing  he  could  have  to  eay 
after  all  these  years. 

Then  she  wondered  if  she  could  answer  him  at  all.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  could  not.  She  watched  the  peo- 
ple passing  in  the  street,  and  the  automobiles. 

It  was  rather  odd  that  she  should  be  considering  the 
matter  so  coolly,  after  the  emotional  upset  of  the  last  hour 
or  so.  Apparently  she  had  spent  her  feelings  on  the  un- 
opened envelope.  It  was  the  sight  of  his  writing,  after 
five  years,  that  had  stirred  her.  To  read  the  letter  and 
come  to  a  half  conclusion  regarding  it  proved  a  relief,  if 
anything. 


THE   HONEY   BEE  151 

No,  she  wouldn't  answer  it.  It  seemed  too  bad ;  but  she 
couldn't. 

She  turned,  and  looked  back  into  the  room.  The  baby 
was  still  asleep.  Moran  sat  motionless,  chin  on  hand,  care- 
fully holding  up  the  blanket.  Her  heart  warmed  toward 
him.  She  came  slowly  back  and  stood  by  him. 

He  looked  up.  "She's  going  fine,"  he  said,  very  low. 
'"This  is  the  nearest  thing  to  a  rest  she's  had  in  days." 

Hilda  nodded.  Her  eyes  filled.  Moved  by  a  swift  warm 
'impulse  she  rested  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "You're 
(very  good,  Blink,"  she  murmured. 

Then,  in  a  sudden  small  panic,  she  moved  away  and 
, busied  herself  folding  and  laying  away  the  little  garments 
that  Adele  had  washed  during  the  morning.  But  Moran 
made  nothing  of  her  action. 

They  had  dinner  together,  the  three,  in  Adele's  room. 

The  baby  became  restless  during  the  evening,  and 
coughed  a  good  deal. 

Moran  went  out  at  nine  for  his  evening  run.  Hilda 
'thought  it  was  on  his  tongue  to  suggest  that  she  accom- 
'pany  him.  But  instead,  after  gazing  thoughtfully  at  her 
for  a  moment,  he  looked  down  at  the  wailing  little  one  and 
ithen  went  alone. 

At  about  ten  o'clock  the  baby  exhibited  signs  of  some 
real  distress.  Hilda  saw  that  Adele  had  fallen  asleep,  and 
softly  closed  her  door.  "With  the  possible  recurrence  of  the 
afternoon  emergency  in  mind,  she  started  a  pail  of  water 
heating  over  the  alcohol  lamp. 

At  ten-thirty  Moran  came  in,  ruddy  and  fresK  from  his 
exercise.  He  brought  a  sense  of  the  outdoor  breeze  with  him. 

"I'm  not  going  to  let  you  sit  up  late,"  said  Hilda,  im- 
mensely relieved  to  have  him  there ;  "but  stay  a  little  while, 
if  you  can." 


152  THE   HONEY   BEE 

"Of  course/'  said  he ;  and  dropped  cap  and  sweater  on  a 
chair. 

He  wore  the  soft  shirt,  open  at  the  neck,  that  she  had 
seen  him  wear  before.  It  clung  to  his  great  chest  and  his 
back.  She  could  even  see  the  pink  of  his  skin,  and  the 
play  of  vigorous,  flexible  muscles. 

"You'd  better  put  your  sweater  on,  Blink,"  she  said. 
"You're  all  wet." 

"Yes,  so  I  am."  He  stood  erect,  inflated  his  chest,  and 
rubbed  it  and  beat  it.  He  was  innocent  of  any  sense  of  ef- 
fect. Hilda  watched  him.  "It  seemed  so  warm  here  when 
I  first  came  in." 

"Of  course,"  she  replied.  "You've  been  running.  It 
isn't  warm  at  all.  Both  windows  are  wide  open." 

He  sat  down  by  the  baby,  and  sobered  as  he  watched  her. 

Hilda  tested  the  water  with  her  finger.  Then  she  heard 
the  baby  coughing,  rather  faintly,  and  making  another  odd 
sound.  She  turned  swiftly,  and  met  Moran's  gaze.  Anx- 
ious, she  raised  her  eyebrows. 

He  nodded.    "This  is  the  way  it  started  before,  Hilda." 

"All  right,"  said  she,  with  a  sudden  businesslike  man- 
ner. "The  water  is  nearly  hot  enough.  Get  the  tub,  Blink 
—and  a  towel.  No,  that  towel  isn't  dry  yet.  You'll  find 
another  in  the  washstand  drawer.  Lay  it  out  on  the  bed." 

She  prepared  the  water  in  the  tub ;  saying  simply,  "All 
right,  Blink."  It  was  better  for  him  to  bring  the  baby — 
he  was  so  strong,  and  his  hands  were  so  steady  and  sure. 

Once  again  he  held  the  child  in  the  warm  water,  while 
Hilda,  stood  by  with  strained  anxious  face.  The  treatment 
had  the  same  effect  as  before.  The  baby  quieted,  and  finally 
fell  asleep,  wrapped  in  the  blanket  on  the  bed.  Hilda  found 
a  way  to  arrange  the  blanket  so  that  it  was  not  necessary  to 
hold  it  up;  then,  drew  the  armchair  to  the  bedside  an<* 


THE   HONEY   BEE  153 

dropped  into  it.  For  a  little  while  they  were  silent,  Moran 
leaning  over  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Both  watched  the  baby. 

Hilda  reflected  on  the  extraordinary  instinct  that  led 
this  hardly  human  bit  of  life  to  fight  so  desperately  for  its 
breath.  "Why,"  she  speculated,  "are  we  so  eager  to  live — 
even  before  we  can  think  at  all  ?  What  is  it  that  drives  us 
so  desperately  forward,  through  everything?  Suppose  I 
were  the  sick  one — I  wonder  if  I  would  try  so  hard  to  live. 
I  wonder." 

She  thought  of  her  mother's  long  struggle ;  then  of  Mar- 
gie, and  her  fresh  young  enthusiasm — Margie,  who  had 
not  been  forced  out  early  to  earn  a  living,  thanks  to  Hilda's 
own  success,  who  thought  that  love  was  everything,  who 
was  living  in  a  wonderfully  impossible  dream  world. 

She  held  up  her  wrist  and  looked  at  her  watch. 

"Goodness,  Blink,"  she  said,  "it  is  after  half  past  eleven ! 
You  must  go  right  now." 

"How  about  you,  Hilda — aren't  you  going  to  bed  ?" 

"How  can  I  ?"  She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  looked 
at  the  mite  of  a  baby  that  now  occupied  the  bed,  exactly  in 
the  middle. 

He  glanced  toward  the  sofa.    "You  could  lie  down." 

"ISTo,  I'll  sit  right  here,  Blink.  I  shall  probably  fall 
asleep  in  the  chair.  Oh,  I'll  get  some  rest  all  right.  And 
then  I  can  hear  her  if  she  stirs." 

"I  think,"  said  he,  "that  we  can  put  her  back  in  the 
basket  without  waking  her  up." 

Hilda  shook  her  head.    "I'd  rather  not  chance  it." 

"Then,"  said  he,  "suppose  I  lie  down  here,  on  the  sofa. 
Then,  if  anything  happens  I'll  be  right  here.  You  can  just 
wake  me  up." 

She  compressed  her  lips.  "No,"  she  said,  more  stiffly.  "I 
want  you  to  go — please." 


154:  THE   HONEY   BEE 

Her  head  settled  against  the  chair-back.  He  was  still 
there,  leaning  on  the  foot  of  the  bed.  She  was  rapidly  be- 
coming drowsy.  She  smiled  a  little,  and  glanced  up  at  him. 

"I  don't  believe  I  shall  ever  again  have  trouble  sleeping," 
she  murmured.  And  then  added :  "Please  go,  Blink." 

Then  her  eyes  closed,  and  her  head  drooped  a  little  to  one 
side.  She  brought  it  up  with  a  jerk.  She  felt  that  she 
ought  to  resist  this  drowsiness. 

She  woke  with  the  uncomfortable  feeling  that  she  had 
been  sleeping  in  her  clothes.  For  a  little  time  she  consid- 
ered this. 

There  was  something  odd  about  it.  She  was  not  in  bed. 
Come  to  think  of  it,  she  could  not  remember  going  to  bed. 
Her  eyes  opened,  then  blinked  at  the  shaded  light.  So  it 
,was  not  yet  morning.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  hear 
low  voices. 

She  was  dressed.  And  she  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  covered 
with  the  heavy  red  comforter  that  usually  lay,  folded  into 
a  fat  triangle,  against  the  footboard  of  the  bed.  She  won- 
dered how  she  had  come  here.  She  looked  at  her  watch.  I* 
was  just  after  two  o'clock.  And  there  certainly  were  voices. 
She  listened.  Adele  was  speaking.  Or  it  sounded  like  Adele, 
very  hoarse — she  was  suppressing  a  cough  now,  trying  to 
keep  very  quiet.  Yes,  it  was  Adele. 

Then  a  man  replied.  It  was  Blink,  of  course.  Appar- 
ently they  were  right  here  in  the  room,  those  two.  Which 
i  was  odd.  Her  mind  was  working  rather  slowly.  She  was 
not  fully  awake,  of  course.  That  was  it — she  wasn't  really 
awake.  She  wondered  again  how  she  had  come  here  to  the 
sofa. 

Adele  ought  not  to  be  here.  The  girl  was  just  about 
down  sick.  And  she  hadn't  the  remotest  idea  as  to  taking 


THE   HONEY   BEE  155 

proper  care  of  herself.  "She's  perfectly  crazy,  that  child," 
thought  Hilda — "perfectly  crazy." 

Suddenly  she  remembered  sitting  in  the  armchair  by  the 
bed,  and  growing  drowsy.  The  picture  came  to  her  mind 
of  Blink  leaning  soberly  over  the  foot  of  the  bed.  It  was  a 
symbol  of  his  extraordinary  steadiness  and  devotion,  that 
mental  picture.  It  was  pleasant  to  lie  languidly  here  and 
think  of  him. 

There  had  been  something  else — something  unusual,  and 
distinctly  depressing.  She  tried  to  recall  it. 

Then  she  remembered  that,  too — the  letter  from  Harris 
Doreyn. 

Her  first  judgment  had  been  right;  she  couldn't  answer 
that  letter.  No  use  reopening  the  dead  past.  No  use  grap- 
pling again  the  old  dilemma.  He  would  be  hurt.  But  even 
that  would  be  better  than  a  new  struggle  with  that  dreadful 
dilemma.  There  had  never  been  any  way  out,  excepting 
the  one  way  she  had  been  driven  to  take,  of  running  away 
from  him  in  sheer  desperation,  in  a  panic.  Perhaps  it 
wasn't  the  biggest  thing,  but  it  had  certainly  proved  the 
only  practical  thing.  This  way,  each  had  gone  on.  He  had 
been  saved  for  his  family.  With  a  wreck  there,  always  be- 
tween them,  they  couldn't  conceivably  have  found  happi- 
ness in  each  other.  It  would  have  worn  them  out.  It  would 
have  been  torture.  No,  there  was  no  good  in  reopening  it. 
And  besides  all  this,  each  had  changed  so;  they  couldn't 
possibly  have  more  in  common  now  than  a  half-tragic 
memory  of  the  persons  they  once  had  been  and  the  love 
they  once  had  so  nearly  shared. 

She  had  molded  her  life  on  other  lines.  It  was  too  late 
now  for  love.  Surely  it  was  too  late.  She  demanded  much. 
She  could  give  little. 


156  THE   HONEY  BEE 

There  was  the  baby — that  would  help  fill  her  life. 

It  would  be  something.  Though  vague  difficulties  rose 
in  her  mind  after  this  thought. 

The  voices  were  going  on.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she 
ought  to  rouse  herself.  She  was  tired.  Her  thoughts 
wouldn't  race  like  this  otherwise.  But  something  was  hap- 
pening, here  in  her  room. 

She  remembered  quite  distinctly  now  the  little  scene  by 
the  bedside,  up  to  the  moment  when  her  head  had  drooped 
and  her  eyes  had  closed.  She  had  jerked  her  head  up  once, 
because  it  would  not  do  to  go  to  sleep. 

But  plainly  she  had  gone  to  sleep.  Blink  had  been  there 
then,  he  was  here  now.  He  must  have  brought  her  himself 
to  the  sofa,  and  covered  her  with  this  absurd  red  comforter. 
He  must  have  picked  her  right  up  in  his  arms,  as  he  would 
have  picked  up  a  child,  and  carried  her  across  the  room.  It 
would  be  nothing  for  him  to  do — literally  nothing. 

She  felt  the  hot  color  coming  into  her  face.  It  must 
have  come  about  in  that  way.  Surely,  if  she  had  walked  to 
the  sofa  she  would  remember.  He  must  have  picked  her 
right  up  and  carried  her  in  his  arms — close  to  him.  The 
daring  thought  flashed  on  her  that  it  would  have  been  won- 
derful had  she  wakened  just  then  and  found  herself  held 
close  in  his  strong  arms. 

Then  she  fought  this  down.  It  would  be  better  not  to 
hold  such  thoughts.  Were  she  to  make  up  her  mind  to 
marry  him — give  up  utterly — why,  well  and  good!  But 
that  was  a  preposterous  notion.  That  was  the  trouble,  she 
thought.  Unless  one  were  willing  to  sacrifice  completely 
either  one's  liberty  or  one's  reputation,  every  warm  human 
impulse  must  be  ruthlessly  crushed.  It  didn't  seem  fair. 
It  made  one  hard  and  bitter  to  live  in  this  way.  But  there 
was  no  choice.  There  were  just  three  precious  tilings  for  a 


THE   HONEY  BEE  157 

•woman,  and  one  of  these  she  must  give  up  in  any  case — 
reputation,  liberty,  love.  She  could  not  possibly  have  all 
three.  She  must  be  always  giving  up,  always  ruthlessly 
sacrificing,  at  least  one  of  the  precious  things.  Hilda  had 
once  sacrificed  love  for  reputation.  Now,  narrowly  as  she 
might  watch  that  exposed,  terribly  fragile  thing,  her  good 
name,  she  was  more  likely  to  sacrifice  love  for  liberty.  For 
BO  a  woman  will  change  in  only  a  few  short  years — short 
but  hard  years. 

That  adventurous  thought  flashed  again — if  only  she 
had  wakened !  She  needn't  have  let  him  know ! 

Again  she  put  the  thought  down. 

The  voices  rose  a  little. 

"Yon  run  along,  to  bed,  kid."  It  was  Blink  speaking. 
"You  just  stop  worrying  about  me.  The  first  thing  you 
know  I'll  have  you  to  sit  up  with,  too." 

"I  won't  do  it,  Blink.'3  Adele  was  tearful  now,  as  well  as 
hoarse. 

Hilda  heard  a  chair  scrape.  The  floor  creaked.  She 
must  throw  off  this  heaviness  and  get  up.  She  could  hear 
Adele  saying  : 

"I  tell  you  I  won't  go,  Blink !  You  take  your  hands  off  I 
I — I'll  fight  you ! — Don't  you  open  that  door !  I  won't,  I 
tell  you — I  won't !"  There  was  a  curious  sound,  a  sort  of 
thump  on  the  floor.  "There  now !  I'm  going  to  stay  right 
here  until  you  go.  You  oughtn't  to  have  stayed,  Blink. 
She  oughtn't  to  have  let  you.  It  was  selfish  of  her.  She 
knows  what  your  sleep's  going  to  mean  now.  It  was  selfish 
of  her.  You  know  I  can  help.  It's  nothing  but  a  cold. 
And  you  staying  up  after  two  o'clock !  .  .  . " 

Hilda  threw  off  the  red  comforter,  and  swung  herself 
into  a  sitting  posture.  She  rubbed  her  eyes  and  looked. 

Moran,  evidently  puzzled,  was  standing  arms  akimbo, 


158  THE   HONEY   BEE 

looking  down  at  Adele.  The  girl  was  sitting  on  the  floor, 
her  slim  back  braced  squarely  against  the  door  to  her  own 
room,,  It  dawned  on  Hilda  that  Adele  had  not  so  much  as 
put  on  her  overcoat  over  her  nightgown.  She  got  to  her 
feet  and  bent  over  her. 

"Get  up,  child,"  she  said.    "You'll  catch  your  death." 

"I  won't  get  up !"  replied  Adele,  in  a  blaze  of  rebellion. 
"Not  until  Blink  goes." 

Hilda,  perturbed,  glanced  appealingly  at  him,  indicating 
with  a  nod  the  hall  door. 

Blink  seemed  to  be  thinking  it  over.    He  did  not  move. 

"Please  go,"  said  Hilda. 

"How  about  you,  Hilda  ?"  said  he.    "Are  you  all  right  ?" 

She  nodded,  with  compressed  lips  and  a  little  flash  in 
her  eyes.  "Please  go." 

"Of  course,"  said  he,  in  an  exasperatingly  matter-of-fact 
tone.  "You  can  go  to  sleep  again.  You'll  hear  if  the  baby 
wakes  up." 

She  nodded. 

"And  then  you  can  get  this  kid  to  bed,  too,"  he  added. 

For  the  third  time  she  nodded.  Then  Blink  said  good 
night  and  tiptoed  out. 

Adele  waited  until  she  heard  him  open  his  door  down 
the  hall  and  close  it  after  him ;  then  she  got  up. 

"Now,  you  go  straight  to  bed,  child,"  said  Hilda. 

Adele  opened  her  door;  but  hesitated  and  confronted 
Hilda.  "You  oughtn't  to  have  done  it,  Hilda,"  she  said, 
with  infinite  reproach  that  was  tempered  only  by  her  hon- 
esty. "Can't  you  see  he's  got  to  have  his  sleep  ?  It  means 
everything,  Hilda — everything!  And  what's  a  little  sleep 
to  you  and  me !  ...  If  baby  wakes  up,  you  call  me. 
I'll  put  on  my  coat — and  my  stockings  and  shoes  if  you  say 
BO.  It  isn't  going  to  hurt  me.  Just  so  as  you  don't  call  him.  1" 


• 

G 


•s 


.s 

o 

s 
r 


THE   HONEY   BEE  159 

"I  won't  call  him,"  said  Hilda,  grimly. 

"You'll  leave  the  door  open,  Hilda  ?" 

"Yes,  I'll  leave  the  door  open.    You  go  to  bed." 

Adele,  using  her  handkerchief,  obeyed. 

Hilda,  staring  awake  now,  bent  over  the  baby  for  a  long 
moment.  It  was  a  relief  to  find  her  still  resting  comfort- 
ably. There  appeared  to  be  a  real  gain  here. 

Then  she  went  over  to  the  window,  and  stood  gazing  out 
at  the  sleeping  city. 

Never  in  her  life  had  she  felt  quite  as  she  felt  now.  That 
ignorant  girl,  living  here  off  her  bounty,  had  called  her 
selfish — and  with  some  appearance  of  justice.  She  couldn't 
think  this  out  now.  Without  anything  like  anger  toward 
the  girl,  she  could  only  feel  the  sting  of  it.  For  she  had 
been  thinking  of  herself. 

She  leaned  on  the  railing.  It  was  warmer  to-night,  not 
so  raw  and  chill  as  it  had  been;  a  mild  winter  night  in 
Paris.  If  Adele  had  been  rebellious,  so  was  she,  in  her  own 
way,  rebellious  now.  An  old  hopeless  love  had  been  stirred 
within  her  and  brought  again  to  vivid  life.  And  a  new 
half-love  had  chosen  this  occasion  to  catch  her  bewildered 
spirit. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  think  of  myself !"  she  breathed,  audi- 
bly, standing  alone  there  in  the  long  window.  "Why 
shouldn't  I !  And  why  must  I  always  look  years  and  years 
ahead !  How  do  I  know  what  lies  ahead !  .  .  .  I'll  stop 
it.  I'll  let  it  all  go,  and  just  think  of  now.  I've  been 
cheated.  I  have  nothing  to  show  for  all  these  years  and  all 
this  work.  And  here  is  love  offered  again — oh,  he's  impos- 
sible !  He's  impossible !  He's  only  honest,  and  kind,  and 
strong.  Thafsall!" 

A  bitter  low  laugh  came. 

Then  she  smiled,  more  softly.     She  was  wishing  again 


160  THE   HONEY  BEE 

that  she  could  have  wakened  for  just  one  wonderful  mo- 
ment to  find  herself  held  securely  in  those  strong  arms,  close 
against  that  wonderful  body.  Oh,  for  strength !  She  was 
tired  of  giving  out  strength  to  others — to  her  subordinates, 
to  the  business  itself,  to  her  mother  and  Harry  and  Margie. 
More  than  anything  else  in  the  world,  at  this  moment,  she 
wanted  to  lean  on  a  strong  arm,  to  give  up. 

She  told  herself  that  this  was  dangerous.  Pretty  Boon 
she  would  stop  thinking  about  it.  This  queer  new  environ- 
ment had  caught  her  up  for  the  moment ;  that  was  all.  And 
the  daylight  would  bring  her  to  her  senses  again.  Partly, 
at  least. 

Then  with  this  understanding  that  she  would  be  sensible 
in  the  morning,  she  let  her  imagination  go.  She  tried  to 
think  out  just  what  she  would  have  felt  if  she  had  found 
herself  there  in  his  arms.  The  outlines  of  her  face  soft- 
ened. Her  eyes  grew  dreamy.  And  a  faint  wavering  smile 
hovered  gently  about  her  lips. 


XIII 

DISTURBING  NEWS,  TEMPERED  BY  THE  PLEASANT  SIGHT 
OF  ED  JOHNSON 

THEN",  just  as  Hilda  was   nearest  to  yielding  to  the 
influence  this  man  had  begun  to  exert  over  her  per- 
sonal life,  there  came  changes  that  affected  radically  the 
routine  and  the  spirits  of  the  little  group  of  Americans  at 
the  Hotel  de  1'Amerique. 

Moran  had  understated  the  extent  of  the  training  that 
would  have  to  precede  his  approaching  conflict  with  the 
great  Carpentier.  Henry  Huybers,  his  manager,  had  views 
on  that  subject,  it  appeared.  Blink  was  to  leave  for  the 
country  at  once,  or  as  soon  as  suitable  training  quarters 
could  be  secured,  and  trainer  and  sparring  partners  en- 
gaged. At  the  outside,  he  could  be  with  them  only  a  few 
days  longer.  And  busy  days. 

Hilda  frequently  heard  voices  in  his  room,  though  she 
saw  none  of  the  eager,  rather  excited  men  that  came  and 
went.  Moran  was  out  a  good  deal,  too;  and  when  he  did 
appear,  was  preoccupied.  It  was  plain  that  he  had  suddenly 
become  the  center  of  a  whirlwind  of  public  attention  as 
well  as  of  almost  frantic  negotiations  and  preparations. 
Hilda  perceived  that  the  great  match  was  to  be  a  strain 
even  on  the  spirit  of  this  surest,  solidest  of  men.  And  she 
had  to  struggle  against  some  resentment  of  the  fact.  For- 
tunately, the  baby  was  beginning  to  get  better;  but  some- 
thing was  suddenly  gone  out  of  Hilda's  life,  something  she 
missed  with  greater  intensity  each  day. 

161 


162  THE   HONEY  BEE 

Adele  took  to  watching  the  news  kiosks  and  bringing 
home  papers  in  which  discussion  of  the  coming  match  ap- 
peared prominently  among  the  important  news  of  the  day. 
Most  of  these  advance  comments  Hilda  could  read  only  in 
disconnected  phrases.  Adele,  it  now  appeared,  had  picked 
up  more  French  than  she. 

Then,  a  few  days  after  this  excitement  had  got  well  un- 
der way,  the  English  and  French  sporting  weeklies  made 
their  appearance,  carrying  pages  of  padded  descriptions  of 
the  two  great  fighters,  full  accounts  of  their  ring  careers, 
and  many  drawings  and  photogravures.  Hilda  came  in 
from  a  lonely  walk  one  afternoon  and  found  Adele  pouring 
over  the  first  of  these  weeklies  to  appear  on  the  boulevards, 
the  one  called  "La  Boxe  et  Les  Boxeurs" 

Triumphant,  Adele  closed  the  cover  and  held  it  up  before 
Her.  There  was  their  own  Blink  in  ring  costume — short 
trunks,  socks  and  light  canvas  shoes.  He  was  represented 
as  crouching  a  little  forward,  arms  extended  in  a  character- 
istic attitude  of  defense,  light  fighting  gloves  curled  about 
the  clenched  fists.  And  it  was  the  real  Blink;  no  doubt 
about  that.  Hilda  caught  her  breath;  then,  to  cover  her 
momentary  confusion,  laughed  and  made  an  effort  to 
snatch  the  paper  from  Adele's  hand.  But  the  girl  put  it 
behind  her,  and  retreated  with  it  into  her  own  room.  There 
she  must  have  hidden  it,  for  when  Hilda  sat  with  her,  a  lit- 
tle later,  it  was  not  to  be  seen.  And  several  hours  elapsed 
before  Hilda  could  make  an  occasion  to  slip  out,  hunt  up  a 
kiosk,  and  buy  the  paper  for  herself  from  a  fat,  wrinkled 
French  woman,  who  struggled  bravely  with  the  impulse  to 
smile  over  Hilda's  pronunciation  of  the  name. 

That  evening,  after  Adele  had  fallen  asleep,  Hilda  got  it 
out  and  studied  it.  Yes,  there  he  was ;  every  whit  as  beau- 
tiful as  her  imagination  had  pictured  him ;  wide  shoulders, 


THE   HONEY   BEE  163 

deep  chest,  body  tapering  down  to  a  slim  waist  and  narrow 
hips,  legs  almost  slim.  He  was  more  slender  than  she  would 
have  supposed.  "If  s  his  big  shoulders  and  the  depth  of  his 
chest  that  give  him  that  stocky  look  in  his  clothes,"  she 
mused.  "And  then,  too,  he  says  that  he  is  heavier  now.  It 
is  a  perfect  body — beautiful  \" 

And  this  perfect  body  was  not  over-muscled.  She  could 
see  little  ridges  and  rows  of  muscle,  and  ropes  of  it  curving 
down  over  his  shoulders  and  losing  themselves  on  his  solid 
breasts.  But  in  the  main,  it  was  a  smooth  lithe  body,  the 
equipment  of  an  active  alert  fighter,  not  at  all  that  of  a 
circus  strong  man. 

She  fell  asleep  that  night,  sitting  back  in  bed,  the  maga- 
zine propped  against  her  knees.  She  found  it  still  there 
when  the  baby  woke  her  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

The  Paris  Herald,  even,  turned  aside  from  its  endless 
lists  of  socially  prominent  travelers  and  its  accounts  of  the 
winter  sports  at  Murren  and  St.  Moritz  to  give  detailed 
measurements  of  the  two  great  fighters,  and  running  com- 
ments, from  day  to  day,  regarding  the  betting  odds.  "Which 
latter  at  this  time  greatly  favored  the  French  champion,  at 
five  and  four  to  two.  Early,  too,  appeared  lists  of  promi- 
nent Americans  who  had  already  announced  their  intention 
of  attending  the  fight.  Hilda  was  surprised  and  even 
rather  oddly  moved  by  the  importance  of  some  of  the 
names.  They  were  coming,  these  travelers,  from  the  Ri- 
viera; from  Rome  and  Venice;  from  London;  from  shoot- 
ing preserves  in  England  and  Scotland;  from  Berlin, 
Vienna,  Baden  and  Carlsbad.  Sober  manufacturers,  of 
standing  in  Chicago,  Philadelphia  and  Cincinnati,  were 
among  the  earliest  applicants  for  boxes.  Many  of  New 
York's  wealthiest  would  be  at  the  ringside.. 

This,  coming  at  the  time  when  Hilda  so  keenly  missed 


164  THE   HONEY   BEE 

Blink's  presence  in  the  sick  room,  touched  her,  at  moments, 
to  resentment  of  a  sort.  They  were  taking  him  away  from 
her.  More,  just  as  she  had  made  the  admission  to  herself 
that  he  was  "impossible,"  they  were  suddenly  placing  him 
on  a  pinnacle  of  public  importance,  even  of  a  kind  of  fame, 
the  like  of  which  she,  in  her  own  business  career,  could 
never  hope  to  win.  She  fell  to  thinking  about  all  this, 
studying  the  Herald  and,  after  the  first  day  or  so,  the  Lon- 
don dailies,  several  of  which  attached  considerable  impor- 
tance to  the  match.  She  recalled  a  hundred  little  unselfish 
acts  in  his  hour-by-hour  watching  over  the  baby  and  her- 
self. 

It  was  at  one  of  these  moments  that  she  came  upon  one 
of  the  detailed  studies  of  his  physical  proportions ;  and  she 
read  the  precise  measurements  of  his  neck,  chest,  waist, 
biceps,  forearm,  thigh  and  calf,  with  mixed  emotions.  On 
the  whole,  it  bothered  her,  this  extreme  public  familiarity 
with  the  man's  very  person.  "Without  exactly  facing  the 
fact  of  this  little  resentment  within  herself,  she  did  permit 
herself  the  wish,  now  and  then,  that  they  would  spare  the 
public  these  intimate  details.  And  then  she  would  herself 
read  them  again  and  again,  curiously  fascinated,  until  she 
could  have  recited  them  in  her  sleep.  And  out  of  all  these 
measurements  she  would  try,  in  little  flights  of  sheer  feel- 
ing, to  reconstruct  the  man  she  had  come  to  know  so  well. 
But  she  never  quite  succeeded  in  this  tax  on  her  imagina- 
tion. Which  brought  home  to  her  again  that  she  did  not 
know  Blink  Moran  the  fighter  at  all.  Then  she  would  be 
stirred  by  impatience  for  the  great  night  to  come,  when  the 
tiger-man  would  emerge  before  her  eyes.  She  speculated 
much  regarding  the  best  plan  for  having  herself  taken  to 
the  fight,  two  or  three  of  which  seemed  feasible. 


THE   HONEY   BEE  165 

Henry  Huybers  finally  selected  quarters  in  a  village  near 
Orleans.  Promptly  the  papers  published  pictures  of  the 
spot,  of  Moran  in  sweater  and  flannels  running  along  a 
country  road  (which  was  distinctly  not  a  French  road)  of 
the  sparring  partners,  of  the  building  in  which  the  now  fa- 
mous contestant  for  championship  honors  would  sleep. 

There  were  moments  when  Hilda's  thoughts  seemed  to 
spring  away  from  the  pressure  and  the  excitement  of  this 
strange  environment  that  had  become  so  suddenly  and  so 
intensely  her  own.  Pictures  of  the  store  would  flash  upon 
her  inner  eye.  Some  unsettled  problem  of  the  last  year 
would  reassert  itself.  She  thought  a  good  deal  of  Annie 
Haggerty.  The  thing  to  do,  in  that  case,  was  to  put  her 
foot  down  and  insist,  should  Martin  continue  obstinate 
about  keeping  the  girl  on  in  the  store,  that  she  be  trans- 
ferred to  some  other  department — even  to  Martin's  own  of- 
fice. Yes,  let  him  take  care  of  her  himself !  .  .  .  For  a 
year  she  had  meant  to  get  a  new  desk  for  herself;  and  a 
long  mirror,  framed  to  match  it.  It  was  curious  how  one 
put  off  these  little  personal  matters  from  day  to  day  and 
month  to  month.  Even  though  her  office  was  a  mere  cubby- 
hole at  the  corner  of  the  fifth  floor,  behind  the  stock  cabi- 
nets, there  was  no  reason  against  making  it  as  cozy  and 
attractive  as  might  be. 

During  this  same  period  she  received  a  long  letter  from 
her  mother ;  and  she  passed  an  entire  day  in  considering  it 
and  framing  a  reply.  Margie's  affairs  were  progressing — 
she  was  now  as  good  as  engaged.  Her  mother  was  greatly 
agitated,  as  much  by  her  own  dread  of  being  left  alone,  now 
that  Harry  was  ready  for  college,  as  by  her  genuine  fear 
that  the  girl  was  making  a  doubtful  choice  of  a  husband. 
Hilda  considered  all  this  very  coolly.  Indeed  the  letter 


166  THE   HOKEY   BEE 

brought  her,  for  the  moment,  back  to  her  normal  life ;  and 
she  seemed  to  feel  the  familiar  home  burdens  settling  again 
on  her  shoulders. 

The  training  party,  trailed  by  a  surprisingly  large  num- 
ber of  newspaper  men  and  camp  followers  more  difficult  of 
classification,  was  to  leave  on  a  Friday  for  the  country. 
Late  on  Thursday  afternoon,  Moran  tapped  at  Hilda's 
door,  and  in  response  to  her  soft-spoken,  "Come  in/'  en- 
tered and  leaned  in  the  fashion  which  had  grown  familiar 
to  her  on  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

"You  look  a  little  tired,"  said  she — "or  nearer  it  than 
I've  ever  seen  you." 

"I  know,  Hilda.  This  working  up  a  fight  is  a  real  job, 
you  know.  Between  fights  I  always  forget  how  much  of  a 
job  it  is." 

"You  are  getting  very  famous,  Blink." 

"Oh" —  he  seemed  to  find  it  necessary  to  stop  and  con- 
sider this — "you  mean  the  press  stuff  ?" 

She  nodded ;  and  smiled  a  little,  with  bright  eyes.  "Of 
course.  You  know  what  I  meant." 

"You  mustn't  take  that  stuff  seriously,"  said  he,  soberly. 
"It's  what  Henry  is  best  at — publicity." 

"Oh,"  she  mused,  "I  hadn't  thought  of  that.  So  he 
works  it  up." 

"Yes — Henry  and  Carpentier's  people.  And  it's  the 
game  to  play  me  a  little  harder  than  they  play  him.  You 
see,  I'm  not  so  well  known  as  he  is,  and  so  the  more  they 
work  up  my  side  of  it  the  evener  the  fight  will  look  before- 
hand. And  it  helps  in  the  betting,  too." 

"You  are  destroying  my  illusions,  Blink,"  she  com- 
plained, half -smiling. 

"But  if  you're  a  business  woman,  Hilda,  you  ought  to 
know  how  these  things  are  done." 


THE   HONEY   BEE  16? 

"I  suppose  so."  She  sighed.  "I  do  know  it,  as  far  as 
the  business  world  is  concerned.  But  the  boxing  world  is 
not  so  familiar  to  me." 

"Well,"  said  he,  shortly,  "that's  just  as  well.  Because  it 
is  a  good  deal  worse." 

"You  don't  mean  that  it's  crooked,  Blink  ?" 

"A  lot  of  it  is." 

"But  not  your  fight." 

He  shook  his  head.  "The  fight'll  be  square,  Hilda.  "No 
fixing  there.  I  wouldn't  fight  him  if  I  had  to  sell  out.  I'm 
going  to  put  him  to  sleep  if  I  can." 

Hilda  drew  in  a  quick  breath.  He  said  this  very  quietly ; 
but  she  had  never  before  caught  the  strong  purpose  of  the 
man  to  quite  this  extent.  The  thought  that  he — her  Blink 
— was  going  into  that  square  "ring,"  beneath  the  blazing 
white  lights  and  before  thousands  of  flushed  shouting  spec- 
tators, with  the  deliberate  intention  of  never  leaving  it 
until  the  great  Carpentier  should  lie  inert  on  the  canvas 
floor,  brought  a  thrill  that  was  partly  sheer  excitement  and 
partly  something  very  like  horror.  There  was  bewilder- 
ment in  it,  too.  He  looked  so  steady  and  quiet  as  he  said  it. 
He  was  so  much  the  steady  man  who  had  had  the  freedom 
of  her  room  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night  without  ever 
taking  an  unfair  advantage,  who  had  actually  dressed  and 
undressed  the  baby  with  those  big  and,  as  it  suddenly 
seemed  to  her,  murderous  hands.  Perhaps,  as  he  had  said, 
it  was  just  business.  Yet,  with  all  her  worldly  experience, 
she  found  herself  unable  to  understand  it. 

He  was  continuing : 

"You  see,  there  is  a  good  deal  that's  what  you  might  call 
crooked  in  all  this  press  stuff  and  the  betting.  Henry  is 
dippy  about  that  side  of  it.  He'd  bet  his  grandmother's 
last  pair  of  shoes  on  a  fight.  Just  a  born  gambler.  But 


168  THE   HONEY   BEE 

he's  a  hustler,  and  as  long  as  he  doesn't  interfere  with  my 
side  of  the  job,  I  let  him  alone.  My  business  is  fighting. 
If  I  do  that  job  well,  it's  enough  for  one  man." 

She  mused  over  this. 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you,"  said  he  then.  .  .  .  "take  a 
little  walk  with  me  to-night,  will  you  ?" 

She  hesitated. 

"It'll  be  the  last  time — for  a  while,  Hilda.  Maybe  it'll 
bring  me  luck." 

Then  she  slowly  nodded;  puzzled,  but  with  composed 
features.  She  was  even  a  thought  nettled.  Surely  no  man 
could  have  appeared  less  the  lover  than  he  appeared  at  this 
moment. 

"I'll  look  in  about  eight,"  said  he.  "It'll  be  hard  to  get 
away  from  that  bunch,  but  I'll  shake  them  somehow." 

"All  right,"  she  replied.    "I'll  be  ready." 

He  turned  to  go;  then  stopped  short  and  felt  in  his 
pocket.  "Got  a  letter  for  you,"  he  explained.  "I  was  near 
the  American  Express,  and  inquired." 

Then  he  left,  and  she  opened  the  letter.  It  was  an  invi- 
tation to  dine  on  the  following  evening — very  formal,  writ- 
ten in  the  stilted  English  of  old  M.  Armandeville,  and 
signed  with  his  name. 

It  was  annoying.  He  had  never  done  exactly  this  with' 
her.  There  seemed  to  be  an  assurance  about  it.  She 
thought  it  over  very  soberly.  When  she  went  down  to  din- 
ner, it  still  held  her  thoughts.  She  was  glad  when  eight 
o'clock  came;  and  on  the  stroke  Blink,  in  a  newly  pressed 
and  creased  blue  suit  and  loose  top  coat,  swinging  his 
"canne  Anglaise."  It  was  a  distinct  relief  to  step  out  by 
his  side  along  the  quiet  street  and  wonder  what  thoughts 
and  emotions  were  stirring  behind  his  immobile  face. 


THE   HONEY   BEE  169 

They  walked,  as  they  had  walked  so  many  times,  through 
to  the  Champs  Elysees,  out  to  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  and 
down  the  slope  to  the  Seine.  He  was  in  one  of  his  silent 
moods.  "Which  was  just  as  well,  she  felt. 

He  led  her  across  the  river,  this  time,  over  the  Pont 
d'lena  and  they  walked  clear  around  the  Champ-de-Mars 
along  the  wide  gravel  paths.  The  Eiffel  Tower  soared 
above  them,  so  high  that  it  lost  itself  in  the  night  sky.  The 
lights  twinkled  about  them.  Occasionally  they  could  hear 
the  wireless,  far  overhead,  scratching  out  long  jerky  mes- 
sages into  the  night. 

"When  they  were  near  the  farther  end  of  the  park  he 
pointed  over  toward  the  big  amusement  wheel  that  was 
faintly  outlined  against  the  sky,  on  their  right. 

"The  Grand  Roue,"  he  said.  "That's  where  I  had  my 
first  fight  in  Paris.  Against  the  middleweight  they  call 
Balzac." 

"Did  you  beat  him,  Blink?"  she  asked,  in  a  dreamy 
.voice. 

"They  called  it  a  draw — a  'match  nul.'  I've  learned  a 
few  things  about  the  business  since  then." 

He  was  silent  for  a  long  time  after  this.  She  felt  that 
he  had  something  on  his  mind,  and  simply  waited  for  him 
to  say  it  in  his  own  time.  She  was  inclined  to  think  that 
it  would  not  be  another  proposal  of  marriage.  It  would  not 
be  like  him  to  approach  that  subject  again  until  the  intense 
preoccupation  of  the  fight  should  be  over  with.  He  was  not 
given  to  dwelling  on  more  than  one  subject  at  a  time. 
When  he  did  speak,  it  became  evident  that  she  was  reading 
him  accurately. 

"I'm  glad  you  felt  like  coming  out  to-night,  Hilda." 

"I'm  glad,  too." 


170  THE   HONEY  BEE 

"I  shan't  likely  see  you  again." 

"Oh,  you  won't  be  coming  to  town  while  you  are  train- 
ing?" 

"No.  Hardly.  I'll  stay  right  there.  And  anyway,  I 
don't  think  I'd  want  to  see  you." 

She  waited  for  the  explanation  that  she  knew  would 
come. 

"You  see,  Henry  is  going  to  put  me  through  a  harder  lot 
of  work  than  I  had  figured  on.  And  I  suppose  he's  right. 
Anyway,  I've  agreed  to  it.  He  says  I  owe  it  to  myself  and 
him  to  make  my  big  stand  right  now.  That's  why  we're  go- 
ing off  so  far — so  the  Carpentier  crowd  won't  know  how 
seriously  we're  taking  it.  Henry  says  we  stand  a  good 
chance  to  slip  over  something  really  big." 

He  walked  on  in  silence,  apparently  thinking  over  this 
prospect ;  then  continued : 

"I've  been  through  this  thing  before,  and  I  know  what  it 
means.  It's  hard  work,  Hilda.  They'll  run  me  off  my 
legs,  and  give  me  dry  food,  and  fight  me  every  day."  He 
whistled  softly.  "Henry  has  persuaded  Al  Banning  to 
come  down  as  one  of  my  sparring  partners.  I  don't  know 
"whether  you  know  what  that  means." 

"I  don't,  Blink." 

"Well,  Al  is  the  hardest  hitting  light  heavyweight  in  the 
world  to-day.  Got  tough  hands,  you  know.  Never  has 
been  known  to  hurt  those  hands.  If  he  was  only  a  better 
boxer  and  had  a  defense  he  would  be  champion  until  he  > 
died  of  old  age.  So  one  of  the  things  I've  got  to  do — every 
day,  mind — is  to  stand  up  there  and  try  to  block  Al's  wal- 
lops— and  not  with  my  chin  either.  Then  he  has  got 
Young  Jimmy  Clabby  to  work  up  my  speed  and  my  judg- 
ment of  distance,  and  a  couple  of  French  youngsters  for  me 
to  punch  around  and  practise  my  left  on.  ...  Here's 


THE   HOKEY   BEE  171 

what  I  meant  about  not  wanting  to  see  you,  Hilda — after 
about  one  good  week  of  this  work  I'll  begin  to  get  ugly. 
Oh,  you  needn't  laugh.  I  will.  I've  been  through  it,  you 
see,  and  I  dread  it.  There  isn't  any  fun  in  it  at  all.  They 
drive  you  something  fierce.  They  just  work  to  turn  you 
into  a  hard,  fast  fighting  machine,  and  it  isn't  a  pretty  job 
to  watch." 

"Well,"  said  Hilda,  trying  to  talk  like  the  efficient  busi- 
ness woman  she  certainly  had  been,  once  upon  a  time,  "that 
sounds  like  practical  sense,  if  fighting  is  your  business. 
And  anyway,  Blink,  you  would  have  no  time  to  think  about 
your  friends.  They  won't  expect  it,  if  they  are  friends." 

His  only  reply  to  this  was,  "Oh,  I'll  be  thinking  about 
you,  all  right,  Hilda." 

They  had  walked  all  the  way  back  to  the  Quai  and  turned 
toward  the  Pont  de  1'Alma  before  either  spoke  again. 
Then  he  said : 

"Here's  what  I'm  really  getting  at,  Hilda — Are  you 
coming  ?" 

"To  the— the  fight,  you  mean,  Blink  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well" — she  hesitated  a  second,  then  rushed  on  with  an 
emotional  force  in  her  voice  that  surprised  herself — "well, 
I  don't  believe  that  you,  Blink,  and  Al  Banning,  and  your 
Young  Jimmy  Clabby  together  are  big  enough  to  keep  me 
out !" 

He  took  this  little  outbreak  quite  impersonally.  "Hew 
are  you  coming,  Hilda  ?  Do  you  want  me  to  get  you  seats  ?" 

"Why,  yes,  Blink!  That  would  be  more  than  good  of 
you.  It — "  She  hesitated.  Little  poisible  awkwardnesses 
flashed  into  her  mind.  Suppose  she  were  to  arrange  the 
thing  so  that  Ed  Johnson  or — she  had  considered  this — 
Abraham  Kutzner  should  act  as  her  escort.  Would  it  be 


173  THE   HONEY   BEE 

difficult  to  explain  how  she  chanced  to  have  the  tickets? 
Perhaps  not.  Still,  she  hesitated. 

"I  wish,  Hilda,"  Moran  went  on,  "that  you  could  come 
with  me.  I'd  like  that." 

Hilda  was  genuinely  surprised.  "But,  Blink,"  she  pro- 
tested, "how  could  you!  That  is  going  to  be  the  busiest 
night  of  your  life." 

"Oh,  I  could  manage  that  easy  enough.  I  would  have  to 
leave  you  with  some  one  during  the  fight,  of  course,  and 
while  I  am  dressing,  but  that  isn't  hard.  I've  been  think- 
ing of  the  other  side  of  it,  Hilda." 

"What  other  side,  Blink?" 

"Why — you  know  Paris.  I'll  be  pretty  prominent  that 
night.  Everything  I  do  will  be  seen  and  known.  Thing3 
might  be  said." 

"I  don't  know,"  she  mused  aloud,  "things  get  said  any- 
way." 

"A  woman's  got  to  be  careful,"  said  he. 

Hilda  did  not  like  this.  Her  old  resentment  was  rising 
again.  "He  is  taking  it  too  seriously,"  she  thought.  "Per- 
haps it  would  be  a  daring  thing  to  do,  but  ..." 

A  number  of  pictures  moved  swiftly  past  her  mind's  eye 
— Blink,  on  that  night  of  the  baby's  worst  attack,  sitting 
there  by  the  bed  in  her  room,  holding  the  blanket  off  the 
weak  little  chest;  Blink  watching  while  she  herself  slept; 
and  that  other  vivid  picture  of  her  imagination,  Blink  lift- 
ing her  up  in  his  arms,  so  easily,  carrying  her  to  the  sofa, 
gently  laying  her  down,  and  covering  her,  very  gently,  with 
that  frightful  red  comforter.  Again,  as  vividly  as  on  that 
night,  she  wished  she  might  have  awakened  for  one  rather 
wonderful  moment  before  he  laid  her  down. 

Her  color  was  rising,  and  her  eyes  were  bright.  She  was 
glad  it  was  dark. 


THE   HONEY   BEE  173 

An  impulse  moved  her  to  swing  in  a  little  closer  to  him 
as  they  walked  along — so  strong  an  impulse  that  she  delib- 
erately swung  farther  away  from  him.  Then  she  composed 
her  voice,  and  said : 

"Would  you  really  like  me  to  go  with  you,  Blink  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  he.  She  almost  chuckled  at  the  gruff  way  he 
said  it. 

"All  right,"  said  she  then.    "I'll  do  it." 

"But  Hilda — yon  don't  understand — " 

She  laughed  softly. 

"I  want  you  with  me,  all  right.  It's  my  big  night. 
But  ..." 

Hilda  stopped  short,  and  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  low 
wall  at  the  brink  of  the  embankment.  She  gazed  with 
dancing  eyes  at  the  dim  magical  river  and  at  the  shadowy 
trees  and  buildings  beyond  it. 

He  walked  on  a  few  steps;  stopped;  looked  irresolutely 
back  at  her ;  then  moved  slowly  to  her  side. 

She  glanced  up  at  him,  with  mischief  in  her  eyes. 

He  was  somewhat  bewildered  by  this  flashing  up  of  the 
capriciously  feminine  in  her.  But  he  had  to  smile  with  her. 

"You  don't  often  talk  nonsense,  Blink,"  she  murmured. 

"Nonsense — " 

She  straightened  up,  and  threw  out  her  hands  in  an  im- 
patient gesture.  He  had  seen  her  make  that  same  brisk 
gesture  once  before. 

"Don't  let's  get  to  discussing,  Blink.  I'm  going  with 
you.  Now  come  on  home.  We're  keeping  Adele  up  too 
late." 

She  slipped  her  hand  into  his  arm,  and  pulled  him  along. 
She  was  smiling  again.  It  was  amusing  to  swing  him 
around  in  this  way,  as  if  she  were  the  stronger.  Perhaps 
she  was  the  stronger.  At  any  rate,  she  was  thrilling  with  a 


174  THE   HONEY   BEE 

sense  of  freedom  and  power.  And  freedom  and  power  are 
pleasant  things. 

"Blink,"  she  said — her  mood  had  changed;  they  were 
crossing  the  Pont  de  1'Alma  now — "tell  me  something. 
Have  you  heard  anything  lately  from  the — the  baby's 
mother  ?" 

"Nothing  very  definite.  Millicent  said  the  other  day  she 
seemed  to  be  getting  a  little  better/' 

"Oh!"  said  Hilda,  "she  is!"  And  added,  as  an  after- 
thought, "That's  good." 

"Yes,  she  has  had  a  mean  time  of  it." 

Hilda  was  thinking  deeply.  "Well,  tell  me,  Blink,  do 
you  think — look  here,  wouldn't  she  be  glad  to  place  her  in  a 
good  home — I  mean,  where  she  would  be  sure  of  the  best 
care  and  training,  good  food,  an  education,  all  that  ?" 

He  walked  on  for  a  long  moment  without  replying. 
Then  he  said : 

"I  don't  know." 

"But  she  can't  very  well  keep  her,  Blink." 

"Why  not?" 

"Well — every  one  would  know  about  her — she  wouldn't 
have  a  chance — " 

"If  you  mean  because  the  parents  weren't  married,  you 
know  the  French  people  don't  take  that  as  hard  as  we  do." 

Hilda  found  herself  momentarily  confused,  and  some- 
thing cast  down.  There  was  opposition  here. 

Blink  went  on : 

"I'd  sort  of  hate  to  see  you  do  it.  On  your  account,  you 
know ;  not  so  much  on  hers.  That  is,  if  she  was  willing." 

"Why,  Blink?" 

"Well — you  know  how  people  are.     They'd  talk  about 

you." 

"Suppose  I  didn't  care  what  they  said." 


THE   HONEY   BEE  175 

"Then  that  would  be  just  as  hard  on  the  kid,  wouldn't 
it?" 

"Oh !"  said  Hilda,  Evidently  this  little  problem  lay  too 
close  to  her  own  feelings  to  permit  of  calm  reasoning.  She 
decided  to  drop  the  subject  and  think  it  out  by  herself.  She 
did  not  wish  to  be  opposed — not  now.  So  they  walked  on 
in  silence  to  the  hotel,  across  the  office,  up  the  stairs  and 
along  the  corridor. 

But  before  they  reached  her  door,  he  caught  her  arms 
and  drew  her  back. 

It  was  curious;  but  something  in  the  way  his  hands 
closed  about  her  arms,  something  in  the  momentary  brush- 
ing of  her  shoulder  against  his  coat,  brought  up  again  the 
yivid  picture  of  Doreyn  and  herself,  in  the  vestibule  of  the 
Chicago  train,  between  the  diner  and  the  sleeping  car.  He 
had  drawn  her  back  in  just  that  way,  excepting  that  Do- 
reyn's  hands  had  gripped  her  with  a  sudden  intensity  that 
had  vibrated  through  them  both  like  an  electric  spark. 
And  that  had  happened  five  years  ago !  In  the  mere  second 
or  so  before  Moran  spoke,  she  passed  through  an  extraordi- 
nary little  rush  of  emotions.  She  wondered  at  her  own 
helplessness  in  the  current  of  these  sudden  vivid  uprushes 
of  memory.  She  even  found  time  to  wonder,  swiftly,  if  it 
was  not  a  sign  that  her  youth  had  passed,  this  recurrence  of 
past  emotions  in  place  of  the  working  and  living  constantly 
in  the  future  that  she  had  always  supposed  the  normal  drift 
of  life.  The  past,  that  she  had  thought  dead,  was  sud- 
denly alive,  amazingly  alive. 

It  held  a  power  over  her.  'At  moments  like  these  it 
seemed  to  have  her  in  a  grip  that  was  almost  disheartening. 

Before  she  could  collect  her  thoughts  sufficiently  to  shake 
off  his  hands,  he  released  her,  saying  simply : 

"Wait  a  minute,  Hilda." 


176  THE   HONEY   BEE 

He  plunged  his  hand  into  his  overcoat  pocket,  and  pro- 
duced a  small  parcel — unmistakably  from  a  Jeweler's  shop. 

Hilda  took  it  in  her  hand,  then  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"I  wanted  to  give  you  something  nice,  Hilda,"  he  said, 
rather  laboriously.  "You  might  give  your  other  one  to 
Adele,  or  somebody." 

She  stripped  off  the  paper  and  opened  the  box.    Within  * 
lay  a  small  bracelet  watch  of  heavy  gold. 

So  he  had  observed  her  possessions,  and  thought  out  her 
needs.  The  wrist  watch  she  had  been  wearing  was  a  gun 
metal  affair  held  on  by  a  leather  strap. 

The  color  came  rushing  back  to  her  cheeks  and  the  danc- 
ing light  to  her  eyes.  She  caught  at  his  hand — Ms  lefii 
hand,  as  it  happened — and  gave  it  an  impulsive  squeeze. 

"You  shouldn't  have  done  it,  Blink,"  she  said. 

"I  wanted  to  give  you — " 

"Yes — never  mind.  I'll  keep  it,  and  wear  it.  Thank 
you,  Blink.  You're  a  dear.  .  .  .  I'm  going  in  now. 
Good  night.  Shall  I  see  you  in  the  morning  ?" 

"Not  likely.    "We  go  on  an  early  train." 

"Well,  good  luck  then!  And  don't  let  them  make  you 
too  ugly,  because  you've  got  to  take  me  to  the  fight.  And 
you  must  be  nice." 

"Now,  Hilda,  are  you  sure  you're — " 

She  reached  up,  her  face  alight  with  that  daring  mis- 
chievous smile — all  woman,  now — and  stopped  his  mouth 
with  her  hand.  He  caught  it,  pressed  it  there,  kissed  it. 

Then  she  jerked  it  away,  slipped  swiftly  into  her  own 
room,  closed  the  door,  and  for  a  moment  leaned  against  it 
until  the  tumult  in  her  breast  could  quiet  down.  For- 
tunately Adele  did  not  see.  She  was  sitting  in  her  own 
room  with  the  connecting  door  ajar. 

Hilda  went  to  sleep  that  night  with  the  new  watch  on 


THE   HONEY   BEE  177 

her  wist.  In  the  morning  she  gave  the  other  to  Adele; 
who  thanked  her,  and  then,  instead  of  wearing  it,  put  it 
away  in  a  drawer  of  her  chiffonier. 

At  noon  Adele  went  to  the  American  Express  for  her, 
and  returned  with  a  note  from  Ed  Johnson,  penciled  on 
a  memorandum  slip  that  bore  the  imprint  of  Armandeville 
et  Cie.  There  was  no  stamp  on  the  envelope.  Either  Ed 
had  sent  it  by  messenger  or  had  left  it  himself  at  the  "M 
to  Z"  window. 

"Dear  Hilda,"  he  had  written.  "Have  just  arrived  in 
Paris.  "Want  to  see  you  right  away  if  convenient.  Will 
look  in  at  American  Express  about  four  this  afternoon. 
Also  later,  around  six.  Have  had  four  weeks  of  toughest 
traveling  in  world.  Those  Wop  railways — can  you  beat 
them!  Between  you  and  I,  I'm  about  ready  to  head  for 
home  and  stick  there  a  good  long  while." 

Hilda  gave  this  characteristic  note  a  good  deal  of 
thought  during  and  after  the  luncheon  hour.  It  was  a 
little  hard  to  understand — Ed  usually  addressed  her  at  the 
big  hotel  on  the  Rue  de  Eivoli.  And  he  was  taking  it  for 
granted  that  she  was  in  Paris,  despite  her  carefully  planted 
explanations  to  the  contrary.  They  must  have  given  him 
this  understanding  at  Armandeville's.  Yes,  surely,  because 
M.  Armandeville  had  asked  her  to  dine  with  him.  He 
knew  that  she  was  in  Paris. 

It  was  disturbing.  Plainly,  the  sooner  she  could  see 
Ed,  the  better.  Before  half  past  three  she  was  dressed  and 
on  her  way,  though  it  was  hardly  a  ten-minute  walk  to 
the  American  Express. 

She  found  a  chair  in  an  inconspicuous  corner  of  the 
big  mail  room  on  the  second  floor.  The  last  occupant  of 
that  chair  had  been  immersed  in  American  newspapers; 


178  THE   HONEY   BEE 

the  large  writing  table  at  her  elbow  was  heaped  high  with 
them. 

A  Chicago  paper  lay  on  top.  She  reached  to  pick  it  up, 
then  withheld  her  hand.  Almost  certainly  it  would  have 
a  big  advertisement  of  the  Doreyn  Company  spread  over  a 
half  or  three-quarters  of  one  of  the  inside  pages.  Even  in 
the  breezy  satisfying  years  of  her  early  success  she  had 
avoided  these  advertisements.  They  stirred  her  uncom- 
fortably. 

She  pushed  the  paper  off  the  heap  and  it  fell  to  the 
floor,  the  long  stick  on  which  it  was  mounted  striking  with! 
a  loud  noise.  Eeaders  and  writers  looked  up  and  around. 

This  was  unpleasant  too.  She  snatched  up  the  next 
paper.  It  proved  to  be  the  Paris  Herald.  She  opened  it 
out,  hiding  behind  it,  and  wondering  why  they  didn't 
mount  the  papers  in  some  way  that  would  enable  one  to 
handle  them  less  awkwardly. 

There  was  the  usual  column  about  the  redoubtable  Blink 
Moran — the  story  of  his  fight,  years  earlier,  with  one  Billy 
Papke.  Moran  had  broken  his  right  hand  in  that  bout. 

Hilda  considered  this.  She  recalled  his  picturesque  de- 
scription of  the  hard-hitting  Al  Banning — "Got  tough 
hands,  you  know.  Never  has  been  known  to  hurt  those 
hands."  It  had  not  occurred  to  her  before  that  a  fighter 
risks  injury  to  his  own  hand  in  striking  an  opponent;  but 
of  course  it  would  be  so. 

She  read  on,  skimming  the  long  list  of  arrivals  and  de- 
partures sent  in  from  this  or  that  hotel  or  city  or  resort 
Idly  she  ran  through  the  London  news.  So  and  so  was  at 
Claridge's,  a  few  at  the  Carlton,  a  hundred  or  more  at  the 
Savoy. 

Then  came  a  few  paragraphs  of  general  comment.  The 
activities  of  the  militants  were  bearing  disastrously  on  the 


THE   HONEY  BEE 

hotel  and  tourist  business  generally.  Or  else  they  were 
not.  Hilda  skipped  over  this.  Her  long  training,  in  the 
business  world  of  men  had  given  her  much  the  same  view 
of  those  rather  violent  agitators  for  the  cause  of  woman  as 
was  held  by  the  average  man  in  the  street.  It  made  her 
impatient,  even  scornful  of  her  sex. 
Then  her  roving  eye  fell  upon  this — 

"Mr.  Harris  Doreyn,  of  Chicago,  was  seen  yesterday  at 
the  Savoy.  He  refused  to  be  interviewed,  saying  merely 
that  he  had  run  over  to  England  for  a  little  rest." 

She  read  the  surprising  paragraph  again,  without  in  the 
least  believing  that  it  was  so,  or  even  that  she  was  really 
reading  it,  there  in  the  paper.  Four,  five,  ten  times  she 
read  it.  Then  she  closed  her  eyes,  and  made  a  deliberate 
effort  to  compose  her  mind.  She  must  comprehend  this 
fact,  somehow.  She  opened  her  eyes,  and  read  it  twice 
again. 

Finally  she  lowered  the  paper  to  her  lap,  rested  her  chin 
on  her  hand,  and  looked  out  the  window  at  the  greatest  of 
opera-houses  just  across  the  street. 

Harris  Doreyn  had  come  to  London ! 

She  told  herself  that  it  was  absurd  to  yield  to  her  agita- 
tion. He  had  often  come  to  London.  He  must  have  been 
a  hundred  times  in  New  York  while  she  was  there  work- 
ing briskly  about  the  fifth  floor  or  sitting  at  her  desk  in 
the  corner  behind  the  stock  cabinets.  More  likely  than 
not  he  had  been  in  the  store.  Everybody  came  to  Hart- 
man's,  one  time  or  another.  His  coming  to  London  now 
could  have  nothing  to  do  with  her — not  conceivably.  Yet 
her  temples  were  pounding  again,  and  she  felt  that  miser- 
able old  congestion  at  the  back  of  her  head. 


180  THE   HONEY   BEE 

He  often  traveled  abroad.  She  had  read  in  a  magazine 
sketch  of  him  that  he  made  travel  his  recreation.  And 
four  years  back,  when  the  newspapers  had  carried  the  re- 
port that  his  health  had  broken,  he  had  gone  to  Carlsbad 
and  stayed  nearly  a  year.  Then  he  had  returned  to  Chi- 
cago and  resumed  his  work. 

His  wife  had  not  been  with  him  at  that  time.  Hilda 
knew  this,  because  Mrs.  Doreyn  was  then  beginning  her 
career  as  a  prominent  club  woman,  and  her  name  had  ap- 
peared as  speaking  here  and  there  in  the  East. 

She  must  compose  herself.  Ed  would  be  coming  any 
moment.  She  got  up,  went  into  the  woman's  rest  room, 
and  made  an  opportunity  to  confront  herself  in  a  mirror. 
The  face  before  her  was  a  tragic  mask — white  and  cold. 
She  took  off  her  gloves  and  washed  her  face,  rubbing  it 
hard  with  her  hands  and  then  with  a  towel  to  bring  up  the 
color.  Then  she  put  on  her  gloves,  and  reentered  the  main 
room. 

There  was  Ed  Johnson — standing  in  the  doorway  near 
the  head  of  the  stairs.  It  was  good  to  see  him.  She  even 
smiled  faintly. 

He  was  an  odd  little  man — short,  and  quite  fat  about 
the  middle,  but  with  a  rather  thin  neck  and  distinctly  thin- 
nish  legs.  Even  in  his  long  overcoat,  she  caught  hints  of 
the  familiar  outlines.  No  tailor  had  ever  succeeded  in 
giving  him  the  appearance  of  even  a  normal  "forty  stout." 

He  was  looking  anxiously  about  now.  She  could  see 
his  short  red  mustache  bristle  up  nervously  as  he  pressed 
his  lower  lip  against  its  upper  fellow.  His  heavy  eyebrows, 
always  arched  very  high,  were  higher  than  usual.  His 
oddly  prominent  eyeballs  stuck  out  farther  than  normal. 
He  was  a  funny  little  man,  Ed  Johnson ;  a  man  of  flaring 
enthusiasms;  a  man  of  passionate  faith  in  the  Hartman 


THE   HOSTEY  BEE  181 

store  and,  above  even  that,  in  the  glove  department,  of 
which  he  was  the  head. 

Hilda,  her  smile  expanding  as  at  the  warm  feeling  of 
home,  suddenly  brought  to  her  here  in  the  heart  of  this 
bewildering  Paris,  stepped  forward  to  grip  his  hand. 


XIV 

MORE   DISTURBING   NEWS;   AND    STILL   MOEE.      A  PRODIGAL 
RETURNS,  SMOKING  CIGARETTES 

THEY  walked  over  to  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix.  Curiously, 
Hilda  found  herself  sitting  at  the  same  table  at  which 
she  and  Stanley  had  had  their  talk.  But  it  was  immensely 
different.  Though  the  facts  of  her  present  life  were  dis- 
turbing, Ed  Johnson  was  a  rest  for  weary  eyes.  Por  all  his 
age  and  worldly  experience,  Ed  was  astonishingly  unso- 
phisticated. She  reflected,  as  she  smilingly  listened  to  his 
eager  shop  talk,  that  this  was  the  best  thing  about  men — 
some  men.  Despite  the  battering  of  a  hostile  ugly  world, 
they  manage  in  some  way  to  hold  their  boyishness.  Ed, 
now,  was  a  tremendous  worker,  a  sharp  trader,  at  intervals 
a  hard  drinker,  and,  withal,  an  overgrown,  soft-hearted 
child.  Women  were  not  like  that. 

Ed  drew  a  handful  of  papers  from  a  side  pocket  and 
ran  through  them. 

"Got  this  cable  from  J.  H.,"  he  said.  "Asks  me  to  look 
you  up.  What's  the  matter,  Hilda — sick  ?" 

"I  was  getting  close  to  it,  Ed." 

"Knocking  off  for  a  while,  eh?" 

She  inclined  her  head. 

"Well,  I  guess  that's  sense.  I  always  say  if  you  don't 
take  the  short  vacations  when  they  come  you'll  find  your- 
self booked  for  a  long  one." 

182 


THE   HONEY   BEE  183 

He  paused,  and  dropped  his  eyes.  Hilda  wondered  why 
he  asked  no  questions. 

"How  do  you  stand  with  your  work,  Hilda?  Anything 
I  can  do?" 

"Thanks— no,  Ed.    I  finished  it  up/' 

"Well,  now  I'll  tell  you — whatever  you  do,  don't  sit 
around  here  and  worry  about  things  at  the  office." 

"I  don't  think  I'm  worrying,  Ed.  Though,  of  course 
I've  never  missed  my  spring  sales  before.  .  .  ."  She 
hesitated,  and  compressed  her  lips.  A  curious  sensation 
of  something  very  like  guilt  was  stealing  into  her  mind. 
Never  before  in  her  working  life  had  she  forgotten  re- 
sponsibilities as  she  had  forgotten  them  lately.  Now  the 
sight  of  Ed,  and  the  familiar  sound  of  his  rather  high- 
pitched  voice,  was  bringing  them  all  back  in  a  rushing  tu- 
mult of  mental  pictures  and  small  and  large  worries.  In- 
deed, the  experience  was  so  confusing  that  she  knew  she 
must  keep  silent  about  it. 

"Oh,  they'll  manage  it  all  right,"  said  he,  cheerfully. 

Still  he  asked  no  questions. 

"I  broke  down  once,  you  know,"  he  went  on.  "Beg'lar 
nervous  prostration.  That's  the  time  I  went  up  to  Canada 
for  six  months.  Doctor  told  me — 'Mr.  Johnson,'  he  said, 
'the  minute  you  find  you're  beginning  to  have  a  good  time 
and  sort  of  hate  to  think  about  coming  back  to  your  desk, 
that  means  you're  only  just  beginning  to  rest.  It's  the 
time  you  take  and  the  playing  you  do  after  that,'  said  he, 
'that  counts  in  building  you  up.' " 

Hilda  appeared  to  be  thinking  this  over.  "How  did 
your  department  get  on  without  you  while  you  were  gone, 
Ed  ?"  she  asked.  "Six  months  is  a  good  while." 

"Fine."  Ed  chuckled.  "That's  the  year  the  business  of 
the  glove  department  gained  nearly  nineteen  per  cent. — 


184:  THE   HONEY  BEE 

eighteen  point  eight,  it  was.  Most  we  had  ever  gained  up 
to  that  time.  Took  a  little  of  the  conceit  out  of  me,  that 
did.  We're  none  of  us  indispensable,  you  know — nobody." 

"I  know,"  mused  Hilda. 

Suddenly  she  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  straight  at  him. 

"Look  here,  Ed,  you  knew  I  was  in  Paris — didn't  you !" 

"Why— yes." 

"How  did  you  know  it?" 

"How  did  I.    ...     Don't  know  as  I  get  you,  Hilda." 

"Yes,  you  do,  Ed." 

"Well,  Mr.  Hemstead  said  in  his  cable  you'd  be  around 
here  somewhere.  See — here's  what  he  says — " 

Hilda  waved  this  aside.  "Did  Levy  tell  you  I  was  here  ?" 

"Why — no.  He  said  you  were  traveling  with  friends, 
and  your  address  was  the  American  Express." 

"Have  you  seen  Mr.  Armandeville  ?" 

Ed  had  finished  his  tea  and  lighted  a  long  cigar.  He 
now  half -closed  his  eyes,  and  smoked  in  deliberate  contem- 
plation. Hilda  indulged  herself  in  the  momentary  wish 
that  women  were  permitted  to  smoke  cigars.  It  gave  one 
an  immense  advantage  in  conversation. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  finally  replied,  as  if  he  had  forgotten  the 
question  and  then  suddenly  recollected  it — "I've  seen 
Mosseer  Armandeville.  This  morning." 

Hilda  waited,  but  Ed  was  again  calmly  occupied  witli 
the  cigar.  Finally  she  broke  the  silence — 

"And  he  said  I  was  here." 

"He — oh,  yes.  He  said  he  knew  you  were  in  Paris,  and 
Levy  had  your  address." 

"What  else  did  he  tell  you?" 

"Not  a  thing." 

"That  question  calls  for  an  answer,  Ed." 

"You've  got  it.    He  didn't  tell  me  anything  else.* 


THE   HONEY   BEE  185 

"But  you  knew  I  was  here.  You  took  it  for  granted  you 
could  reach  me  to-day." 

Ed  smoked  and  smoked.  Once  he  removed  the  cigar, 
turned  it  up  between  thumb  and  second  finger,  watched  the 
smoke  curl  upward,  opened  his  mouth  as  if  to  speak,  then 
abruptly  thrust  the  cigar  back  into  it  and  kept  silence. 

Hilda  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  table,  still  looking  at 
him.  He  could  not  meet  her  direct  gaze. 

"Listen,  Ed,"  she  said.  "This  thing  is  on  my  mind. 
I  gave  them  to  understand  that  I  would  be  away.  But 
they  seem  to  know  that  I'm  not  away.  And  you  knew  I 
was  not." 

Ed  was  biting  into  the  cigar  now.  He  again  removed 
it,  and  reflected. 

"Guess  I'd  better  tell  you  just  what  was  in  my  mind, 
Hilda," 

"I  think  you  had,  Ed." 

"Well — between  you  and  I,  it's  disturbed  me  quite  some. 
I  didn't  like  the  way  Levy  said  it.  He  got  that  off,  about 
you  being  away  and  your  address  being  the  American  Ex- 
press, just  like  the  machine  he  is.  I  could  tell  from  the 
look  in  those  china  blue  eyes  of  his,  that  he  was  lying  and 
he  didn't  care  if  I  knew  it.  But  he  was  expected  to  say 
that,  and  he  said  it.  It  was  his  job.  So  then,  pretty  soon, 
I  saw  the  old  boy  himself.  You  see,  I  was  some  worried, 
having  J.  H.'s  cable  and  all." 

"And  just  what  was  it  he  said  ?" 

"Why" — Ed  had  some  gift  of  mimicry — "he  says, 
'Mam'zelle  Veelsong  she  ees  on  Paree,  but  she  'ave  no  time 
for  her  good  frien's.  She  do  not  say  she  ees  on  Paree.  She 
say  she  'ave  go — vat  you  say — avay,  ees  eet  not  ?  But  she 
'ave  not  go  avay,  for  eet  ees  zat  I  'ave  see  her  one  time,  two 
time,  and  Mosseer  Kutzner  he  'ave  see  her,  and  zat  rascal 


186  THE   HONEY   BEE 

Levy  he  'ave  see  her  and  lie  know  much  but  he  vill  not 
say  ze  t'ing  at  all.' " 

Hilda  tried  to  smile.  Then  her  lips  drew  together,  and 
her  brows. 

"Listen,  Ed,"  she  finally  remarked.  "This  is  really 
ipretty  awkward,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Why,  I  don't  see  that  it  is,  Hilda.  You've  got  a  right 
to  keep  away  from  business,  when  you're  on  a  vacation — " 

"It  isn't  just  that,  Ed.  You  have  already  admitted  that 
you  were  disturbed  by  the  way  they  spoke  of  me.  Don't 
forget  that." 

"Well — "    Ed  looked  uncomfortable,  and  smoked  faster. 

"Mr.  Armandeville  sent  me  a  note  only  last  night  ask- 
ing me  to  dine  with  him  this  evening." 

"Going  to?" 

"No,  I  haven't  answered  it — and  shan't.  But  it  both- 
ered me,  Ed.  I've  never  accepted  his  invitations — never 
given  him  the  slightest  encouragement — but  his  note 
showed  that  he  knew  I  was  here,  and  the  tone  of  it — well — 
it  was  exactly  as  if  he  thought  he  knew  things  about  me 
that  gave  him  the  right  to  address  me  that  way.  I  can't 
tell  you — I  tore  the  note  up — and  anyway,  you're  not  a 
woman,  Ed,  and  maybe  you  wouldn't  have  seen  in  his  note 
what  I  thought  I  saw,  and  felt.  But  it  hurt.  And  I'm 
afraid  it's  serious." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  he,  "better  go  right  ahead  and  forget  it." 

"A  woman  can't  do  that,  Ed." 

"These  Frenchmen  are  a  lot  of  beasts,  anyway." 

Hilda  said  nothing  to  this.  Ed  meant  to  be  encouraging. 
But  he  had  lived  too  long  and  too  deeply  in  that  curious 
business  region  where  women  meet  daily  with  men,  even 
compete  with  them,  on  a  footing  of  apparent  equality 
that  is  really  the  bitterest  inequality,  not  to  know  better. 


THE   HONEY  BEE  187 

Yes,  Ed  knew.  He  had  seen,  many  a  time,  how  ferociously 
[the  pack  tears  after  a  woman  once  the  tongue  of  gossip 
has  lashed  her.  He  knew  that  men  have  no  restraint,  no 
chivalry,  in  the  pursuit  of  a  common  prey.  Ed  himself 
was  decent  about  these  things.  .  .  .  Besides,  it  was  no 
good  reminding  her  that  these  Frenchmen  were  a  lot  of 
beasts  when  they  happened  to  be  the  identical  beasts  with 
whom  she  must  work,  pretty  closely,  all  her  life,  if  she  was 
to  work  at  all. 

She  changed  the  subject.  It  could  do  no  good  to  dwell 
on  it — at  this  time,  anyway.  There  would  be  time  enough 
to  worry  when  this  gossip,  whatever  it  might  be,  should 
reach  New  York  and  the  store.  Very  possibly  it  would 
never  reach  there.  For  Paris,  after  all,  was  Paris. 

"When  did  you  get  in,  Ed?"  she  asked.  "This  morn- 
ing?" 

"No — yesterday.  Put  in  the  day  getting  Stanley  Aitch- 
eson  off  to  Cherbourg.  That's  a  funny  thing." 

"What  is?"  she  asked.  Then  followed  it  with  another 
question — "Is  he  sailing  for  home?" 

"In  the  morning.    Funny  thing.    Didn't  you  hear?" 

"Well— no,  surely  not." 

"He's  gone  plum  crazy  over  a  girl  he  met  on  the  boat 
coming  over — name  of  Macy — Philadelphia  folks.  And 
what  do  you  think — those  two  kids  were  going  to  get  mar- 
ried right  here.  Couldn't  wait.  Talk  about  big  eyes  and 
snooky  ookums — It's  fierce!  Stanley  dug  up  a  minister 
yesterday — an  American.  If  the  old  man  hadn't  come  down 
hard,  he'd  have  abducted  the  girl.  But  now  they've  agreed 
to  wait  until  she  gets  back  to  New  York.  Stanley  was  only 
over  for  a  week  or  so,  anyhow.  He  got  nervous  and  beat 
it — came  here.  Haven't  you  seen  him?" 

"Once — for  a  few  minutes." 


188  THE   HONEY   BEE 

"Well,  the  old  man  told  him  to  go  back  and  make  sure 
of  his  job.  So  he's  gone.  He's  a  nut,  that  kid." 

"He  writes  good  copy,"  observed  Hilda. 

"Between  you  and  I,  Hilda,  he  does.  Seems  like  a  man 
has  to  be  a  nut  to  write  well,  don't  it!  But  say — the 
girl's  a  winner!  Good  family,  I  hear.  And  skads  of 
money.  I'm  inclined  to  think  it's  a  good  thing.  It'll 
steady  the  boy  down,  if  anything  will." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Hilda,  soberly. 

It  occurred  to  him  then,  suddenly,  that  there  had  been 
some  vague  talk  about  Hilda  and  Stanley,  something  about 
a  hopeless  infatuation  on  the  part  of  the  boy.  He  dropped 
the  subject.  But  he  could  not  see  that  the  news  affected 
Hilda.  She  was  sober;  but  she  had  been  a  bit  cut  up  by 
the  gossip  at  Armandeville's.  When  she  spoke  again,  it 
was  on  that  topic. 

"Ed" —  she  began,  then  paused — "Ed,  I'm  going  to  tell 
you  what  I've  been  doing  here  in  Paris.  It's  as  decent, 
as  fine,  as  anything  I've  ever  done  in  my  life.  It  has  done 
me  good,  already.  I  can  check  that  up.  I  was  tired  and 
unstrung,  and  needed  something  new  to  interest  me  and 
rest  up  these  old  store-worn  nerves.  But  it  has  been  some- 
thing of  an  adventure.  It  is  just  the  kind  of  thing  that 
the  people  we  work  among  over  here  could  never  under- 
stand in  the  world.  Besides  I  had  to  get  away  from  that 
business  crowd.  As  you  said,  a  while  ago,  I  had  a  right  to. 
I  haven't  had  any  personal  life  for  years  and  years — not 
since  I  was  a  girl,  Ed.  I  just  had  to  have  a  little.  I  found 
it  I'm  living  in  it  now.  And  I'm  almost — well,  almost 
happy,  Ed." 

He  looked  up,  covertly,  once  or  twice.  Her  color  was  up. 
And  there  was  the  flash  in  her  gray-blue  eyes  that  he  had 
•een  there,  once  in  a  while,  when  she  had  been  stirred  to 


THE   HONEY   BEE  189 

some  unusual  effort  in  the  business — when,  as  he  would 
phrase  it,  she  was  "putting  something  over."  That  she 
could  on  occasion  put  things  over,  Ed  knew  only  too  well. 
She  was  known  to  be  strong  in  going  after  things  she  really 
felt  she  ought  to  have — rather  self-centered;  not  always 
quick,  when  her  spirit  was  roused,  to  see  the  other  fellow's 
point  of  view.  She  would  never  be  a  good  executive,  as 
her  predecessor,  Mrs.  Hanford,  had  been.  Her  personality 
was  too  positive.  She  hadn't  tact  enough.  But  she  could 
drive  herself  and  others.  She  had  force  as  well  as  taste. 
She  could  buy  merchandise,  display  it,  and  sell  it — really 
sell  it. 

All  this  he  knew.  But  to-day  he  caught  glimpses  of  a 
new  and  different  Hilda  Wilson.  She  was  after  something ; 
he  knew  that  from  the  flash  in  her  eyes  and  her  high  color. 
But  with  all  her  determination,  she  was  softer.  Eight  now 
there  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  And  her  manner  of  speech, 
while  direct,  straight-out,  had  a  new  touch  of  gentleness 
in  it. 

She  leaned  forward  on  the  table,  intent  on  her  own 
thoughts. 

"Ed,  I'm  living  in  a  queer  little  hotel  back  of  the 
Madeleine,  with  a  girl  dancer  and  a  lot  of  chorus  girls. 
And  I'm  taking  care  of  a  little  French  baby.  It's  been  sick, 
Ed." 

He  returned  her  gaze,  winked  rapidly,  and  pushed  up 
his  mustache  until  it  bristled  out  straight. 

"Well—"  said  he,  after  a  moment— "Well !" 

"And  I  want  you  to  come  around  and  see  her,  Ed.  N"ow, 
if  you  will.  The  baby,  I  mean.  I've  been  dodging  the 
Armandeville  people  and  Stanley — everybody — because  this 
is  a  personal  experience,  and  none  of  their  business.  I  told 
them  I  would  be  away.  It  begins  to  look  now  as  if  that 


190  THE   HONEY  BEE 

was  foolish,  for  you  see  they've  tripped  me  right  there. 
I've  felt  like  a  criminal — furtive,  sneaking.  But  that  isn't 
my  fault,  Ed.  It's  because  people  can't  understand  a 
woman  wanting  to  be  herself,  even  for  a  few  weeks.  They 
won't  let  us  be  ourselves,  you  know.  And  I've  bolted. 
Jumped  the  traces.  But  it  has  occurred  to  me  that  I  can 
talk  to  you.  I  want  you  to  come  around.  You've  heard 
whispers  of  what  they're  saying  about  me.  Now,  come  and 
see  for  3rourself  just  the  kind  of  fire  that's  under  this  dirty 
smoke." 

Ed  was  something  bewildered.  But  he  was  also  flattered 
by  her  confidence. 

She  told  him  more  of  the  story  as  they  left  the  cafe  and 
walked  along  the  boulevard.  Moran,  however,  she  left  out 
of  it.  If  this  was  disingenuous,  she  was  only  momentarily 
conscious  of  the  fact.  That  seemed,  at  the  time,  quite  an- 
other matter.  Ed  would  understand  Adele  and  the  baby, 
where  the  part  played  by  Blink  in  the  little  menage  at  the 
Hotel  de  1'Amerique  might  complicate  the  picture  for  him. 
Blink  was  away;  Ed  need  know  nothing  about  him.  Un- 
less he  should  stay  over  for  the  fight.  At  which  point 
Hilda  gave  a  little  shrug  and  turned  her  thoughts  along 
pleasanter  lines.  Certainly  it  was  pleasant  to  let  Ed  into 
even  a  part  of  the  story.  It  seemed  to  bring  a  sort  of  sanc- 
tion into  it;  respectability  even. 

It  was  an  extremely  self-conscious  Ed  Johnson  that  fol- 
lowed Hilda  up  the  red  stairway  and  into  the  room  at  the 
end  of  the  corridor.  Hilda  saw  him  cast  a  hesitating  glance 
at  the  bed,  and  herself  suppressed  a  smile.  Adele  was  just 
coming  in  from  her  own  room,  looking  wan  but  soft  and 
pretty  in  one  of  Hilda's  old  negligee  wraps.  Ed's  eye 
lighted  with  quick  interest  as  he  was  made  known  to  her; 
but  he  blushed  faintly  as  he  regarded  her  costume,  and 


THE   HONEY  BEE  191 

nervously  pushed  up  his  mustache.  Hilda  had  to  ask  him 
twice  to  take  a  chair,  and  when  he  did,  he  kept  his  hat  on 
his  knee.  He  did  not  take  off  his  overcoat. 

He  sat  for  a  little  time,  gazing  down  at  the  restless  baby. 

"She's  pretty  thin,"  he  said,  finally. 

"She  has  gained  eight  ounces,"  Adele  put  in,  with  a  flash 
of  resentment  that  reached  Hilda  but  not  Ed. 

"Yes,  Ed,"  said  Hilda,  "she  is  gaining.  She  has  been 
very  ill.  For  a  while  we  couldn't  be  sure  .  .  .  but  she 
has  been  getting  more  good  out  of  her  food  these  last  few 
days.  Do  you  know,  Ed,  you've  no  idea  how  much  of  a 
job  it  is  to  work  out  the  problem  of  feeding  a  delicate 
baby." 

"Very  likely  I  haven't,"  Ed  replied.  "Both  my  kids  had 
good  stomachs." 

After  a  few  moments  of  this  rather  stiff  conversation, 
Hilda  said,  smilingly — 

"Are  you  dining  anywhere  in  particular,  Ed?" 

He  was  not. 

"Suppose  you  and  I  walk  over  to  Larue's  or  the  Lucas. 
Say  the  Lucas — that  is  quieter,  and  we  can  chat." 

Accordingly,  in  high  good  spirits,  she  led  him  over  to 
the  Boulevard  Malesherbes.  The  presence  of  Ed  brought 
back  into  her  conscious  thoughts  all  that  had  been  normal 
in  her  life  at  the  store,  which  had  lately  seemed  like  a 
queer,  if  long,  dream.  And  more  and  more  as  the  mo- 
ments passed  his  presence  endorsed  this  even  queerer  life 
at  the  Hotel  de  1'Amerique.  It  even — for  so  eagerly  will 
a  bewildered  human  grasp  at  the  straws  of  justification — 
overcame  for  the  moment  the  furtive  fact  that  she  was 
still  leaving  Moran  out  of  the  picture  that  she,  with  such  an 
air  of  frankness,  was  permitting  Ed  to  see.  So  she  set- 
tled comfortably  on  one  of  the  luxurious  side  divans  at 


192  THE   HONEY   BEE 

the  Lucas,  sipped  a  light  wine  and  ate  well.  And  Ed,  an 
hour  later,  grown  expansive,  confided  to  her  that  she  was 
looking  better  than  he  had  seen  her  look  for  six  months. 
"You  weren't  so  tired,  Hilda/'  said  he — "it  was  more  like 
being  stale.  You  know  what  I  mean." 

"Yes,  I  understand,  Ed." 

"You  see,  a  girl  in  your  position  hasn't  the  ways  of  re- 
laxing and  freshening  up  that  we  men  have." 

Hilda  smiled  a  faint,  infinitely  wise  smile.  "So  you've 
discovered  that  fact,  Ed?" 

"Yes.    It  is  a  fact." 

Hilda  inclined  her  head. 

"Queer  game,  anyway,  this  man  and  woman  business. 
Between  you  and  I,  it  won't  ever  be  settled.  You  never  can 
fix  things  where  men  and  women  are  in  the  game  together, 
without  there'll  come  up  something  that's  plum  unreasona- 
ble, to  mix  you  all  up  again." 

"The  way  it  is  fixed  now,  Ed,  it's  pretty  hard  on  the 
woman." 

"I  know — but  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it!  I 
swan,  sometimes  I  think  we'd  all  be  happier  if  the  women 
all  stayed  home  the  way  they  used  to  when  we  were  kids." 

"Or  else  if  they  take  more  of  a  hand  in  running  the 
game." 

Ed  sputtered — "But  that  would  be  hell,  Hilda — excuse 
me,  but  you  see  women  are — 

"Hell  for  the  men,  Ed,  yes.  Eight  now  it's  hell  for  the 
women.  Wouldn't  it  be  fairer  to  distribute  the  hell  around 
a  little — give  some  to  both  sides?" 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  the  home,  then? 
If  you  give  women  too  much  freedom  .  .  ." 

"I'm  not  going  to  do  anything  about  the  home."  Hilda 
suppressed  a  sigh.  "Ed — tell  me  about  the  store.  Has 


THE   HONEY   BEE  193 

Mr.  Hartman  decided  to  build  the  annex  through  to  Lex- 
ington Avenue?  .  .  ." 

Ed  left  her  at  the  hotel,  gripping  her  hand  with  a  pres- 
sure that  hurt  it.  He  would  be  centered  at  Paris  for  sev- 
eral weeks,  he  said,  making  short  trips  to  some  of  the 
provincial  cities  and  one  little  journey  over  the  German 
border. 

Hilda  ran  almost  light-heartedly  up  the  red  stairway. 

She  found  Adele  sitting  in  her  room,  holding  the  baby 
in  her  arms.  The  door  into  Adele's  room  was  closed. 

Hilda  removed  her  coat  and  hat;  then,  glancing  at 
Adele,  was  surprised  to  observe  that  the  girl  was  quietly 
crying.  At  once  her  anxious  gaze  dropped  to  the  baby ;  but 
the  child  was  sleeping. 

"What  is  it,  Adele?"  she  asked.  "Nothing  wrong  with 
baby?" 

Adele  slowly  shook  her  head. 

"There  certainly  is  something  wrong,"  thought  Hilda. 
"The  girl  looks  positively  despondent." 

Adele  seemed  to  be  making  an  effort  to  speak.  But  in- 
stead, she  choked  down  a  sob.  Finally  she  looked  help- 
lessly toward  the  closed  door. 

Hilda  followed  her  gaze,  perplexed.  Then  she  stood  up 
very  straight,  and  sniffed  the  air  ...  It  was  faint,  but 
— yes,  it  was  unmistakable — the  odor  of  cigarette  smoke! 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked.    "Who  is  there?" 

Adele  said  then,  very  low — "It's  Will." 

"Will  Harper?" 

Adele  nodded. 

"But  he  can't  come  here." 

Adele  made  no  reply  to  this. 

"Is  the  other  girl  here,  too — Blondie?" 

Adele  shook  her  head. 


THE   HONEY  BEE 

Hilda  considered.     "I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  ask  him 
to  leave,  Adele." 

"I  did,"  said  the  girl.    "He  won't  go."    But  after  a  mo- 
ment she  laid  the  baby  carefully  in  its  basket,  and  said — 
"I'll  try  it  again." 
"Has  baby  had  her  bottle,  Adele?" 
"Not  yet.    I  was  just  going  to  heat  the  water." 
Adele  unlocked  the  door.     Plainly  there  had  been  a 
scene  of  some  sort.    She  had  shut  him  out  of  Hilda's  room. 
She  slipped  into  her  own  room,  drawing  the  door  softly 
to  behind  her. 


THE  EETUBNED  PEODIGAL,  SEEKING  SOMETHING  IN  THE  NA- 
TURE OF  A  FATTED  CALF,  MEETS  WITH  AN  EXPEEIENCE 
THAT  WOULD  BE  AMUSING  WEEE  IT  NOT  SO  SEEIOUS 

HILDA,  as  she  busied  herself  with  the  alcohol  lamp, 
could  hear  Adele's  low  voice.  Then  his  in  reply. 
She  made  no  effort  to  catch  what  they  were  saying. 

Young  Harper's  voice  was  rising,  however.  Finally 
Hilda  stood  erect,  the  bottle  in  her  hand,  listening. 

"Now  don't  you  go  talking  that  way,  Adele !  You  act 
as  if  I'd  never  done  anything  for  you.  Didn't  I  pick  you 
Tip  when  you  was  nobody,  and  teach  you  every  step  you 
know,  and  bring  you  over  here — " 

Adele  interrupted  him,  still  speaking  very  low. 

<rWhad  'o  you  mean,  run  away!  Nothing  o'  the  kind. 
You're  ungrateful.  That's  the  woman  of  it — 'Oh,  the 
years  we  waste  and  the  tears  we  waste !' — Get  all  you  can 
out  of  a  man — everything  he's  got — his  money,  his  steps, 
everything! — and  then  tell  him  you  got  no  more  use  for 
him  any  more !  I  guess  the  sniveling  kind  can  be  vam- 
pires, too.  Trouble  with  you  is,  you  don't  care  a  dam'  for 
any  one  but  yourself,  Adele.  You're  selfish !  To  the  mar- 
row. You're  selfish  to  the  marrow !" 

Adele  spoke  again.  Then  his  voice  broke  out  in  a 
whining  sort  of  anger.  "Whad  ?o  you  expect  me  to  do? 
Haven't  got  ten  francs,  I  tell  you !  How  can  I !  Thing 

195 


196  THE   HONEY   BEE 

to  do  is  to  get  back  at  the  Parnasse.  We  can  pick  up  a  liv- 
ing as  a  team.  You  can't  do  it  alone — you  know  that! 
And  you  gotta  do  something,  haven't  you  ?  Did  you  think 
you  could  live  off  the  lady  all  the  rest  o'  your  life?  You 
lived  off  o'  me — now  you're  sick  o'  me  and  you  think  you 
can  live  off  o'  her.  Nothing  doing,  I  tell  you !  Noth — ing 
do — ing !" 

Adele's  voice  rose  now;  tremulous  with  feeling. 

"Oh,  you'll  have  me  put  out,  will  you !  And  who's  go- 
ing to  do  it !  Try  that  on  and  there'll  be  a  fight.  Eight 
here  and  now.  I'll  meet  force  with  force.  I  won't  start 
anything,  but  I'll  meet  force  with  force.  I  s'pose  you  think 
the  lady's  crazy  for  a  big  scene  here — melodrama  stuff !  Oh, 
say,  she's  just  crazy  about  that !  Help  her  a  lot,  wouldn't 
it,  to  get  caught  in  a  fight  with  a  crowd  like  us !"  He 
paused,  thought  of  something;  then  his  voice  abruptly 
changed  from  whining  to  wheedling. 

"Say,  Adele,  now  try  to  be  sensible,  just  for  a  minute. 
You're  in  soft  here.  You  let  me  in  on  it.  You  gotta  do 
the  decent  thing,  anyhow,  after  all  I've  done  for  you.  You 
can't  let  me  starve.  We'll  work  this  out  here,  and  by  that 
time  I'll  have  a  job  for  us.  You  can  leave  that  part  of  it 
to  me — with  my  personality,  I'll  land  something  good.  And 
while  I'm  thinking  that  over,  the  lady's  gotta  be  decent  to 
us.  She  don't  want  trouble.  Not  for  a  minute.  I  tell 
you,  she's  gotta  act  decent." 

At  this  point,  Adele  apparently  succeeded  in  quieting 
him.  Hilda  heard  only  a  mumbling  of  voices.  She  went 
on  now  preparing  the  bottle. 

Then  Adele  came  in,  closing  the  door  and  leaning  back 
against  it.  She  looked  distressed  and  confused;  but  her 
eyes  were  flashing.  She  had  to  wait  for  her  breath. 

"He  won't  go,"  she  whispered.    "What  shall  we  do  ?" 


THE   HONEY   BEE  197 

Hilda  pursed  her  lips.  "You  think  he  really  won't, 
Adele?" 

The  girl  nodded.  "He  hasn't  any  money,  you  see.  And 
Will's  keen  enough  when  it  comes  to  looking  out  for  him- 
self." 

Hilda  stood  still,  considering  this.  Harper  was  correct 
enough  in  his  reasoning;  a  real  disturbance  would  be  dis- 
tasteful to  her.  Eurther,  she  did  not  care  to  involve  the 
managers  of  the  hotel  in  the  matter. 

After  puzzling  over  it  for  a  little  time,  she  went  in  and 
talked  to  him  herself. 

He  lay  sprawled  on  the  sofa  and  did  not  rise  when  Hilda 
appeared.  He  was  very  nervous;  his  hand  shook  as  he 
lighted  a  fresh  cigarette.  His  face  was  thin  to  the  point 
of  haggardness.  He  greeted  her  with  eager  familiarity. 

"Never  mind  that,"  she  said  bruskly.  "I  heard  all  you 
said!" 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed,  crestfallen;  then,  with  a  renewal 
of  that  weak  eagerness,  said — "But  I  didn't  mean — you 
see,  you  didn't  get  me  quite  right !  Now  Adele — " 

She  quieted  him  with  a  look  and  a  movement  of  her 
hand.  "You  say  you  won't  go  ?" 

"How  can  I?"  He  spread  out  his  hands.  "Give  me 
time.  Just  the  minute  Adele  and  I — " 

Hilda  left  the  room  and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 
Adele  slipped  forward  and  locked  it. 

"I  wish  Blink  was  here  for  about  two  minutes !"  the  girl 
muttered. 

Hilda  did  not  reply.  She  walked  to  the  window,  think- 
ing. More  than  before  she  felt  disinclined  to  draw  the 
hotel  people  into  this  private  quarrel.  For  the  small  ho- 
tel keepers  of  Paris  are  minutely  answerable  to  the  police, 
and  ure  timid.  Young  Harper  was  plainly  counting  on 


198  THE   HONEY   BEE 

this  fact,  as  well  as  on  her  own  vulnerability.  'And  Blink 
was  distinctly  not  here. 

Her  thoughts  were  turning  toward  the  one  man  on 
whom  it  was  possible  to  call.  She  pictured  the  fat  little 
body  and  the  curiously  thin  legs  and  neck.  Ed  was  not 
what  you  would  call  an  athlete.  He  would  be  surprised, 
but  she  was  inclined  to  believe  that  he  would  be  willing  to 
help.  For  that  matter,  there  was  nothing  else  to  do.  Cer- 
tainly she  would  not  surrender  Adele's  room  to  the  boy. 
And  she  could  not  herself  undertake  to  put  him  out  by 
force.  For  a  moment  she  reflected  on  the  extent  to  which 
her  first  impulsive  step  in  the  direction  of  personal  freedom 
had  already  complicated  her  life.  There  might  easily 
prove  to  be  trouble  for  herself  in  making  an  enemy  of  this 
dissipated,  nervously  irresponsible  boy;  for  he  was  des- 
perate. But  the  alternative,  to  add  his  support  to  her  al- 
ready heavy  list  of  expenses,  was  out  of  the  question.  Be- 
sides, that  course  would  certainly  lead  to  even  deeper  com- 
plications. There  would  be  no  end  to  it!  ...  It 
seemed  a  cold-blooded  act  to  put  him  out  into  the  street. 
But  what  else  ? 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "It  appears,"  she  decided, 
"to  be  up  to  Ed." 

Whereupon,  she  set  about  her  distasteful  task  in  deter- 
mined fashion.  Cautioning  Adele  to  lock  herself  in,  she 
slipped  out,  tiptoed  down  the  hall  and  stairs,  caught  a  taxi 
and  rode  to  the  Hotel  Continental,  where  Ed  always 
stopped. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening.  She  noted  this  fact 
by  the  wrist  watch  Blink  had  given  her,  while  she  was 
seeking  the  man  who  would  probably  find  difficulty  in  the 
task  that  Blink  would  dispose  of,  were  he  here,  with  a 


THE   HONEY   BEE  199 

quiet  -word.  There  was  a  chance  that  she  would  find  Ed 
at  the  hotel.  Paris,  she  knew,  was  an  old  story  to  Ed. 
Also,  he  had  spoken  of  having  letters  to  write. 

Ed  was  in.  He  came  hurrying  out  to  the  taxi — hat  a 
little  to  one  side  of  his  head,  overcoat  on  arm — in  response 
to  the  penciled  card  she  sent  in. 

She  told  him  of  her  predicament  as  the  taxi  dashed 
through  the  Eue  St.  Honore  and  whirled  into  the  Eue  Du- 
phot  toward  the  Madeleine.  And  Ed  sat  very  still  by  her 
side.  Though  she  did  not  look  at  him,  she  knew  that  his 
mustache  was  bristling. 

Even  when  the  taxi  stopped  at  the  Hotel  de  1'Amerique 
and  he  ceremoniously  handed  her  out,  Ed  said  nothing. 
But  he  was  very  ceremonious  indeed.  And  she  thought  he 
was  breathing  rather  hard.  He  walked  beside  her  up  the 
red  stairway  with  positive  solemnity,  and  waited,  still  in 
utter  silence,  while  Adele  let  them  in.  Then  he  took  oS. 
his  overcoat  and  undercoat,  and  placed  them,  with  his  hat, 
on  a  chair. 

Hilda  had  never  seen  those  curiously  protruding  eye- 
balls bulge  as  they  were  bulging  now.  His  color  was  high, 
and  his  breath  short.  Hilda  delayed  in  putting  away  her 
hat  and  coat  to  cover  the  misgivings  that  suddenly  assailed 
her.  For  Harper  was  young;  and,  when  all  was  said  and 
done,  was  a  trained  dancer  of  a  distinctly  acrobatic  tend- 
ency. Should  Ed  prove  unequal  to  this,  for  him,  unfa- 
miliar task,  matters  might  grow  very  complicated  indeed 
at  the  Hotel  de  1'Amerique. 

Before  she  dared  look  at  him,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Adele's  face  in  the  mirror  over  the  washstand;  and  her 
doubts  deepened.  She  wished  Ed  wouldn't  take  it  so  hard. 
He  needn't  have  taken  off  both  coats.  Why,  he  positively 


200  THE   HONEY  BEE 

invited  assault,  standing  there  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  his  mid- 
dle rounding  out — she  thought — like  a  Brownie's,  and  his 
legs  so  oddly,  inadequately  thin. 

Adele  would  not  look  at  him.  She  busied  herself  sewing 
a  button  on  one  of  the  baby's  shirts. 

"Adele,"  said  Hilda,  with  some  vague  idea  of  delaying 
the  matter,  "I  wouldn't  try  to  sew  in  this  light,  child." 

The  girl  made  no  reply,  but  stubbornly  kept  on. 

Ed  advanced  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  looked  sternly 
from  one  to  the  other,  and  cleared  his  throat. 

"Where" —  his  voice  was  husky;  again  he  cleared  his 
throat — "where  is  he?" 

The  matter  could  be  delayed  no  longer.  Hilda  indicated 
the  locked  door. 

He  strode  toward  it.  He  grasped  the  knob,  turned  it, 
and  pulled — once,  twice. 

"It  is  locked,"  said  Hilda. 

"Oh,"  Ed  replied,  "of  course.    Yes,  of  course." 

He  turned  the  key.  Adele  lowered  her  sewing  to  her 
tap  and  watched  him.  Hilda  followed  him  to  the  door  a8 
he  opened  it  and  strode  into  the  next  room.  She  felt  a 
perverse  impulse  to  laugh. 

Ed  went  as  far  as  the  geographical  center  of  the  room, 
rested  a  hand  on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  looked  down  at 
the  reclining  figure  on  the  sofa. 

Will  Harper,  for  his  own  part,  looked  up  at  Ed  in  frank 
surprise,  and  inhaled  a  long  breath  of  cigarette  smoke.  He 
too  had  removed  his  coat,  though  with  the  different  motive 
of  comfort. 

Ed  cleared  his  throat. 

Harper  held  his  cigarette  between  two  nicotine-stained 
fingers  and  looked  across  it  at  the  fat  little  man  with 
prominent  eyeballs  and,  at  the  moment,  a  red  face. 


THE   HONEY  BEE  SOI 

It  was  Harper  who  broke  the  silence,  saying — 

"Well,  well !  Where  do  you  come  in  ?" 

"Never  mind  that,"  Ed  replied.    "Yon  get  out." 

Harper  inhaled  again,  meditatively.  His  gaze  drifted 
past  the  invader  toward  the  doorway,  now  partly  blocked 
by  Hilda,  as  if  studying  the  enemy's  strength.  Then,  rea- 
sonably sure  that  he  had  only  the  little  man  to  contend 
with,  he  replied — 

"Nothing  doing." 

"You  get  out !"  Ed  repeated,  solemnly  and  with  a  trem- 
ulous note  of  emotion  in  his  voice. 

Hilda  saw  the  red  color  deepen  about  his  neck  and  cords 
stand  out  there. 

"I  want  you  to  get  that,"  Ed  continued.  "I  propose  to 
be  fair  with  you.  I'm  giving  you  warning." 

"Oh,"  murmured  Harper,  "are  you  leaving  us  ?" 

Ed  brushed  this  remark  aside.  "I'm  giving  you  fair 
warning,"  he  said  again. 

Hilda  wondered  if  Ed  had  a  debate  in  mind.  Blink 
would  have  had  the  business  over  with  by  this  time.  Then 
her  gaze  wandered  down  over  the  curiously  unimpressive 
person  of  the  glove  buyej,  and  the  beginnings  of  a  depres- 
sion touched  her  spirit.  Even  now  she  could  not  think  of 
any  other  course  she  might  have  taken.  But  this  situation 
was  grotesque.  It  was  comic.  There  was  no  telling  how  it 
would  result.  And  she  could  not  see  what  on  earth  Ed  was 
getting  at — where  he  expected  this  sort  of  talk  to  lead. 

Ed  enlightened  her.  His  eyes  were  turning  swiftly  here 
and  there.  He  saw  Harper's  coat,  thrown  over  a  chair  just 
beyond  the  end  of  the  sofa  and  near  one  of  the  two  win- 
dows. These  windows,  like  nearly  all  the  windows  in 
Paris,  extended  from  floor  to  ceiling,  opening  at  the  mid- 
dle like  a  double  door.  He  studied  that  nearest  window 


THE   HONEY  BEE 

for  a  brief  moment,  then  glanced  again  at  the  coat,  then 
about  the  room.  Harper's  suit-case — a  black  affair,  much 
worn  and  quite  shapeless — lay  open  and  empty  on  a  chair 
by  the  washstand.  Another  coat  and  the  waistcoat  and 
trousers  to  match  it,  hung  over  the  back  of  the  chair.  Two 
pairs  of  low  shoes  and  one  of  gray  spats  lay  in  a  small  heap 
under  the  chair.  A  few  shirts  and  some  underwear  had 
been  balanced  across  the  water  pitcher.  A  nondescript 
little  pile  of  personal  belongings  lay  on  the  bed. 

Harper,  during  this  inventory-taking,  swung  around  and 
eat  up,  smoking  steadily,  a  thought  puzzled.  The  fat 
little  man  had  something  in  mind,  apparently. 

An  expression  of  decision  came  into  Ed's  face.  And  his 
flush  of  excitement  partly  subsided.  He  moved  swiftly 
over  to  the  window,  lifted  the  catch,  and  swung  it  open. 
Then  he  reached  behind  him,  picked  up  Harper's  coat,  and 
threw  it  out,  over  the  iron  railing,  into  the  dim  shadows  of 
the  street  below. 

Harper  sprang  to  his  feet,  surprised  into  an  outbreak 
of  profanity. 

Ed  turned,  and,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  is  eminently 
practical,  who  is  governed  wholly  by  a  fine  sense  of  method, 
made  for  the  suit-case. 

Harper  caught  his  arm  and  swung  him  around.  The 
boy's  anger  had  risen  so  suddenly  that  he  was  not  coherent 
at  first. 

"Look  here,  you  boob,  whad  'o  you  think  you —  You 
get  that  coat — hear  me !  You  big — " 

"I  warned  you !"  cried  Ed,  in  a  rising  voice.  It  occurred 
to  Hilda,  who  was  still  motionless  and  speechless  in  the 
doorway,  that  she  had  never  before  noticed  how  very  high 
Ed's  voice  was  pitched.  "I  gave  you  fair — " 


THE   HONEY   BEE  203 

THe  two  were  talking  at  once  now.  Harper  was  still 
gripping  Ed's  arm,  and  Ed  was  struggling  unsuccessfully 
to  jerk  it  away.  Hilda  felt  like  putting  her  hands  over  her 
ears.  She  was  suddenly  sorry  for  Ed.  He  was  inadequate 
— quite  inadequate. 

Then  Hilda  felt  herself  crowded  aside.  Adele  had 
brushed  past  her  into  the  room.  The  two  men,  shouting 
at  each  other,  and  struggling — rather  weakly,  Hilda 
thought — had  worked  themselves  around  almost  behind  the 
bed,  leaving  the  center  of  the  room  clear.  Adele  snatched 
up  the  empty  suit-case  and  threw  it  out  after  the  coat. 
Harper's  extra  shoes  followed ;  then  the  shirts. 

Hilda  was  still  speechless;  but  she  now  moved  on  into 
the  room  and  closed  the  door  behind  her.  This  thing  was 
going  to  be  a  fight ;  and  the  baby  still  slept. 

Adele  was  reaching  for  the  odds  and  ends  on  the  bed 
when  Harper  awoke  to  her  part  in  the  attack  upon  himself. 
He  instantly  quit  his  grip  on  the  arm  of  the  little  man, 
darted  around  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  threw  Adele  against 
the  wall  with  a  force  that  left  the  girl  white  and  breathless. 

Hilda  caught  Adele's  arm,  and  steadied  her.  Young 
Harper  was  exceedingly  angry  now;  likely,  indeed,  to  hurt 
some  one.  He  was  standing  there,  pouring  out  a  torrent 
of  ugly  language  at  the  girl — language  that  lashed  Hilda's 
own  spirit  to  a  healthy  anger  the  like  of  which  she  had  not 
known  in  many  years — when  Ed  Johnson,  seeing  the  op- 
portunity that  Adele's  diversion  had  opened  to  him,  acted 
with  sudden  and  quite  unexpected  vigor. 

He  came  scrambling  over  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

Harper  turned,  but  not  in  time  to  dodge  effectually.  Ed 
sprang  at  him,  from  above,  with  a  momentum  that  carried 
him  to  the  floor  with  a  crash. 


204  THE   HONEY  BEE 

Hilda  distinctly  felt  the  floor  give  under  her  feet.  She 
saw  the  tall  wardrobe  rock,  and  heard  the  large  water 
pitcher  rattle  loudly  in  the  bowl. 

For  an  instant  after  this  there  was  utter  silence.  Young 
Harper  lay  on  his  back,  breath  gone,  half  stunned.  Ed 
sat  astride  him,  still  gripping  the  hair  he  had  caught  at 
in  his  leap. 

Hilda,  feeling  herself  suddenly  quite  calm,  and  as  if  a 
mere  disinterested  spectator  of  this  astonishing  scene, 
noting  that  Harper's  cigarette,  still  smoking,  lay  on  the 
bed,  casually  burning  its  way  through  the  coverlet,  picked 
it  up  and  dropped  it  in  the  wash  bowl.  Harper  must  have 
thrown  it  clear  across  the  room  in  his  first  rush  of  excite- 
ment. 

Harper  was  struggling  again  now — weakly  at  first,  but 
with  steadily  increasing  violence. 

It  occurred  to  Hilda  that  she  had  better  give  some  at- 
tention to  her  champion.  Eor  Ed  was  plainly  gripped  in  a 
high  climax  of  sheer  excitement.  His  face  was  nearly  pur- 
ple. His  eyes  were  staring  with  an  alarming  wildness. 
He  still  managed  to  retain  his  insecure  seat  on  the  thrash- 
ing body,  and  at  the  moment,  his  fingers  twisted  in  the 
ample  hair  of  the  young  dancing  man,  was  jerking  the 
head  about  and  pounding  it  on  the  floor  with  downright 
ferocity.  Hilda  suddenly  realized,  too,  that  the  noise  had 
set  in  greater  than  before.  Harper  was  screaming  with 
pain,  uttering  outrageous  phrases  that,  had  Hilda  been  lis- 
tening in  cold  blood,  would  have  shocked  her  beyond  ex- 
pression. But  her  blood  was  not  cold  .  .  .  Ed  was  shout- 
ing things,  too. 

Harper  relaxed  for  a  moment,  gathered  what  force  he 
could,  then  made  a  determined  effort  to  throw  off  his  plump 
and  masculine  Nemesis.  Adele,  seeing  the  nimble  legs  of 


THE   HOXEY   BEE  205 

her  erstwhile  dancing  partner  beating  the  air  dangerously 
near  to  the  head  of  the  glove  buyer,  suddenly  threw  her 
slim  self  upon  them  and  pinned  them  to  the  floor.  Ed, 
meanwhile,  renewed  his  furious  manipulations  of  the  head. 

Hilda,  genuinely  alarmed,  caught  at  Ed's  shoulder.  She 
found  it  necessary  to  shake  him  before  he  appeared  so 
much  as  to  know  that  she  was  there.  Finally  he  glanced  up. 

"It  isn't  necessary  to  kill  him,  Ed,"  said  Hilda. 

The  buyer  of  gloves  considered  this,  without  for  an  in- 
stant relaxing  his  hold  on  that  mass  of  hair.  Then  he 
stared  down  into  the  red  face  beneath  him. 

"Are  you  ready  to  go  after  your  clothes  now,  like  a  lit- 
tle man?"  he  asked,  breathless  but  stern. 

Harper  returned  the  stare  rather  uncertainly.  Then  he 
shot  a  bewildered  glance  at  the  tall  beautiful  woman  who, 
though  so  quiet,  appeared  to  command  the  situation. 

"Let  me  up,"  he  muttered  then. 

Ed,  finding  this  reply  unsatisfactory,  set  his  teeth  and 
fell  again  to  pounding  the  now  much  battered  head  against 
the  floor. 

Adele,  seated  firmly  in  an  upright  position  on  Harper's 
shins,  looked  on  over  Ed's  shoulder  with  quiet  satisfaction. 

"All  right,"  cried  young  Harper— "Ouch !  Quit  it !  Cut 
it  out,  can't  you !  All  right — I'll  go !  Lemme  be,  there !" 

Ed's  fingers  slowly  and  reluctantly  disentangled  them- 
selves from  that  tempting  hair.  Very  slowly  and  heavily 
ne  got  to  his  feet. 

All  now  became  conscious  of  a  furious  knocking  at  the 
corridor  door. 

Hilda  opened  it.  The  manager  of  the  hotel  stood  there 
— a  small,  round-shouldered  Frenchman  of  middle  age — 
supported  in  the  rear  by  the  muscular  Gustave  whose 
metier  was  the  making  of  beds. 


206  THE   HONEY   BEE 

The  manager  waved  his  arms,  sputtering  French  phrases 
so  rapidly  that  only  Adele  caught  the  drift  of  them. 

It  was  she  who  replied,  saying,  "II  est  voleur!  II  est  vo- 
leur!  Maintenant  il  sort,  je  crois!" 

And  sort  Will  Harper  did — followed  by  the  still  sputter- 
ing manager,  the  muscular  maker  of  beds,  and,  as  far  as 
the  head  of  the  stairs,  by  Ed  Johnson,  a  triumphant  little 
wreck  of  a  man. 

Ed  returned  just  as  Adele  observed  that  Harper  had 
quite  forgotten  the  little  heap  of  personal  possessions  on 
the  bed.  She  pounced  upon  them,  gathered  them  into  her 
arms,  carried  them  to  the  window,  and,  one  by  one  threw 
them  down  into  the  street — hair  brushes,  bottle  of  bril- 
liantine,  rumpled  balls  of  underwear  and  hosiery,  a  pair 
of  clogging  shoes,  tube  of  dentrifice,  and  tin  make-up  box. 

Then  she  turned  back  into  the  room,  brushing  her  disar- 
ranged hair  back  into  place  and  chuckling  softly. 

"There's  a  crowd  down  there,"  she  explained,  "and  a 
couple  of  gens  d'armes.  They  won't  let  Will  pick  up  his 
things.  Gustave  has  got  the  suit-case."  She  paused,  lis- 
tened and  sobered.  "Baby's  crying!"  she  exclaimed,  and 
slipped  into  the  other  room. 

Hilda,  meanwhile,  felt  some  concern  regarding  Ed.  At 
the  moment  he  was  on  his  hands  and  knees,  his  head  un- 
der the  bed. 

"You've  lost  something,  Ed,"  she  cried. 

"Button  off  my  vest,"  he  explained.  Shortly  he  found 
it,  and  got  to  his  feet. 

"I'll  sew  it  on,  Ed !"  said  Hilda,  impulsively. 

"Not  at  all  necessary,"  he  replied.    "Thank  you." 

He  had  reverted  to  the  unusually  solemn  spirit  in  which 
he  had  first  entered  the  room.  Hilda  studied  him,  torn  be- 


-a 
W 


THE   HONEY  BEE  207 

ttween  a  warm  sense  of  Ed's  sturdy  fighting  loyalty  and  a 
strong  impulse  to  burst  into  hysterical  laughter. 

He  was  covered  with  dust.  A  considerable  amount  of  it 
had  got  on  his  face,  which  was  streaked  and  grimy.  There 
was  a  small  cut  and  a  larger  swelling  under  his  left  eye, 
from  which  a  little  blood  had  run  to  mix  with  the  dirt.  His 
hair,  thin  on  top  but  rather  thick  over  his  ears,  now  stuck 
up  nearly  straight  on  both  sides. 

"Ed— you're  hurt  I"  cried  Hilda. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  he,  with  dignity.  "No,  not  at  all."  He 
ispread  out  his  grimy  fingers  and  looked  at  them.  "I  only 
broke  a  finger  nail.  I  think,  Hilda,  if  you  don't  mind,  I 
would  like  to  wash  my  hands." 

Hilda,  rather  than  wait,  herself  took  a  pitcher  down  the 
hall  for  hot  water.  Ed  rolled  up  his  sleeves  and  got  him- 
self as  clean  as  he  could,  scouring  his  face  excepting  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  injured  eye,  where  he  rubbed  in 
gingerly  fashion. 

"Oh,  Ed,"  said  Hilda,  "you're  going  to  have  a  black  eye ! 
You'd  better  get  right  back  to  the  Continental  and  tie  some 
raw  meat  on  it." 

"It's  really  nothing,"  said  Ed.  "Nothing  at  all !  Per- 
haps you  have  a  clothes  brush,  Hilda." 

Very  carefully  he  brushed  himself,  placing  first  one  foot 
and  then  the  other  on  a  chair,  in  order  to  dust  off  each 
trousers  leg  in  turn.  He  rubbed  his  shoes  with  his  hand- 
kerchief. Then  he  put  on  coat  and  overcoat,  which  Hilda 
brought  in  from  the  other  room. 

He  stood  in  the  center  of  the  floor  to  say  good  night, 
just  where  he  had  stood  in  beginning  the  little  debate  with 
young  Harper  that*  had  turned  so  abruptly  from  words  to 
action.  Hilda  thought  of  this.  And  so,  perhaps,  did  Adele, 


208  THE   HOKEZ   BEE 

who  no-w  came  to  the  door  and  looked  in.  The  baby  had 
stopped  crying. 

"It  was  my  plan  to  do  this  thing  quietly,"  said  Ed.  "I'm 
'sorry  he  made  so  much  trouble." 

"That's  all  right,  Ed,"  Hilda  replied,  loosing  the  smile 
that  had  been  struggling  to  come.  "You  did  the  job." 

Ed  waved  his  hand.  "Nothing  at  all.  .  .  .  Sorry, 
Hilda,  but  I've  got  to  go  to  Strasburg  in  the  morning.  I'll 
only  be  here  a  day  or  so  at  a  time  for  the  next  two  weeks. 
But  I'll  send  over  my  route  and  hotels  in  the  morning,  so 
you  can  wire  if  you  need  me." 

"We  shan't  need  you/'  said  Hilda,  promptly.  "Good 
night,  Ed.  I  hope  you  won't  feel  any  the  worse  for  this." 

Adele  stepped  forward  and  took  his  hand — a  thought 
shyly. 

"Good  night,"  said  he.  "Good  night,  all.  If  you  have 
any  trouble,  telegraph  me." 

"We  shan't  have  any  trouble,  Ed,"  said  Hilda. 

And  Adele  put  in — "He  won't  come  back." 

"Between  you  and  I,"  Ed  observed,  more  cheerfully— 
"between  you  and  I,  he  won't." 

Then,  very  dignified,  he  went  out  and  away. 

When  the  door  was  closed,  Hilda  sank  down  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed  and  looked  about  the  somewhat  damaged  room. 
'Adele  dropped  on  a  chair. 

Hilda  felt  the  long-suppressed  laughter  rising.  She 
pressed  her  handkerchief  to  her  mouth — she  had  never  ex- 
hibited any  lack  of  self-control  before  Adele ;  she  preferred 
not  to  now.  But  the  impulse  was  strong.  She  found  her- 
self fighting  back  an  actual  giggle — such  a  giggle  as  she 
had  not  been  guilty  of  for  years  and  years,  not  since  that 
girlhood  that  had  ended  so  abruptly  and  unexpectedly  when 
the  work  of  her  life  began. 


THE   HONEY  BEE 

As  it  Happened,  Adele  broke  down  first.  She  laughed  so 
hard  that  her  effort  to  control  herself,  at  least  until  she 
could  close  the  door  on  the  baby,  nearly  strangled  her. 
Then  the  two — the  little  dancing  girl  who  had  lived  so 
queer  a  life,  and  the  youngish  but  experienced  business 
woman  of  settled  habits  and  authoritative  ways,  looked  at 
each  other  and  laughed  until  the  tears  ran  unrestrained 
down  their  cheeks. 

"Anyway,"  Adele  managed  to  say,  after  a  time,  "he's  a 
good  scout  1" 


XVI 

IN  WHICH  ED  JOHNSON  TEIES  TO  PUT  OVER  A  DIFFICULT 
PROPOSITION,  AND  FAILS.  THE  RETURN  OF  A  PERSON  OF 
IMPORTANCE;  A  PRESSURE  OF  HANDS;  AND  THE  WHITE 
LIGHTS  OUT  BY  THE  PORTE  MAILLOT 

ED  JOHNSON  returned  from  Strasburg  before  the 
week  was  out,  and  promptly  dropped  in  at  the  Hotel 
de  1'Amerique.  Hilda  liked  his  coming  in  that  offhand 
way,  without  preliminary  notes  or  telephonings.  It  indi- 
cated his  faith  in  her,  his  complete  acceptance  of  her  little 
adventure  in  life  as  she  had  represented  it  to  him. 

They  dined  together,  she  and  Ed,  then  and  once  or  twice 
during  the  following  week.  One  afternoon  he  took  a  walk 
with  her  while  she  wheeled  tho  baby  out  in  the  new  Eng- 
lish perambulator.  They  talked  of  the  store,  of  persons, 
of  Paris,  of  life  as  a  problem.  One  evening  Ed  ^pened  his 
heart  regarding  the  injustice  of  an  accounting  system 
which  charged  to  his  department  more  than  three  thousand 
dollars  a  year  that  should  have  gone  to  "overhead."  Ed 
felt  deeply  on  this  subject;  and  Hilda  found  it  a  rather 
pleasant  revival  of  her  working  habits  to  go  over  the  prob- 
lem with  him  and  straighten  him  out.  Tor  Ed  was  wrong 
about  those  charges. 

She  had  many  moods.  Sometimes  memories  of  Moraii 
hovered  intimately  in  her  thoughts.  At  other  times  Do- 
reyn's  strong  sad  personality  came  magically  close.  Then 

210 


THE   HONEY   BEE  211 

the  baby  would  fill  her  life,  as  on  the  morning  when  Adele 
so  excitedly  called  her  in  to  see  the  first  unmistakable 
smile. 

It  was  plain  now,  even  to  herself,  that  she  was  drifting 
more  and  more  rapidly  in  some  new  direction.  Frequently, 
"at  night,  thoughts  came  that  frightened  her.  Hardly  a  day 
passed  that  she  did  not  find  herself  struggling  with  the 
inner  urgings  to  get  back  as  quickly  as  possible  to  her  own 
land,  where  the  old  environment  would  claim  her  and  set 
her  right.  But  even  at  these  moments  she  knew  that  the 
days  were  passing  and  that  she  was  drifting  on  and  on. 

Every  day  she  looked  through  the  Herald  and  at  least 
one  of  the  London  papers  for  some  news  of  Doreyn;  but 
found  none.  She  wondered  if  he  was  still  in  London.  She 
wondered  why  he  had  come  at  all.  .  .  .  She  fell  to  look- 
ing up  the  personal  items  from  Carlsbad  and  the  other 
watering  places  of  the  continent  for  news  of  him.  .  .  . 
She  was  really  afraid  of  him',  or  rather  of  the  tremendous 
force  he  had  been  in  her  life.  She  could  not  put  down  the 
recurrent  belief  that  he  had  come  abroad  to  find  her.  There 
were  ways  enough  in  which  he  could  have  traced  her.  It 
would  be  like  him.  When  he  wrote  that  non-committal 
little  note,  saying  that  he  wished  to  come  to  New  York  to 
talk  with  her,  he  had  it  in  his  mind  to  find  her.  He  meant 
to  have  that  talk.  Otherwise  he  would  not  have  written 
at  all,  after  five  years  of  silence.  For  Harris  Doreyn  never 
acted  from  vague  motives.  She  recalled  an  old  saying  of 
his — "I  try  to  make  it  a  rule,  Hilda,  never  to  ask  for  a 
thing  until  I  think  I  can  get  it."  That  had  referred  to  his 
business  struggles ;  but  it  was  characteristic  of  the  man. 

But  this  line  of  thinking  invariably  brought  her  to  an 
impasse.  She  told  herself  that  it  was  nonsense,  and  sought 
to  busy  herself  with  external  things.  Still  ...  it  was 


213  THE   HONEY  BEE 

strange  that  he  had  not  followed  up  that  almost  curt  note 
with  another — and  that  he  had  crossed  the  ocean  only  to 
remain  silent. 

The  explanation  that  she  usually  fell  back  on  was  that 
v  he  had  been  planning  a  journey  abroad  and  had  thought  of 
looking  her  up  in  New  York  as  he  passed  through. 

The  one  interest  that  seemed  to  be  strong  enough  to 
crowd  out  these  thoughts  appeared  to  be  the  daily  news 
from  the  training  camp  of  the  redoubtable  Blink  Moran. 
Blink  had  not  written ;  but  the  papers  were  watching  him 
closely.  Adele,  every  day,  helped  Hilda  decipher  the 
French  despatches.  After  these  intimate  glimpses  of  the 
man  at  his  work,  Hilda  always  felt  closer  to  him.  It  even 
occurred  to  her  that  she  sometimes  deliberately  indulged 
herself  in  sentimental  day-dreams  of  Blink  as  a  defense 
against  the  encroachment  on  her  spirit  of  the  hopeless 
memories  of  Doreyn.  She  was  fighting  Doreyn  through 
her  fighting  man.  She  smiled  a  little  at  this  thought, 
rather  defiantly.  And  added  to  herself — "Well,  Blink  is 
big  enough !"  And  then  she  dreamed  on,  wilfully  permit- 
ting her  thoughts  to  hover  about  the  borders  of  love. 

The  fight  was  to  take  place  on  the  twenty-fourth  of 
March.  Ed  Johnson,  fortunately  for  Hilda,  was  sailing  on 
that  day.  He  returned  to  Paris  from  his  last  short  trip  on 
the  twenty-second,  and  at  once  sought  Hilda.  She  had 
wondered  a  little,  before  this,  how  Ed  had  happened  to 
escape  the  fever  of  interest  in  the  coming  event  that  had 
stirred  all  western  Europe.  She  never  stepped  into  the 
American  Express  office  now,  or  walked  along  the  boule- 
vards, without  hearing  Americans  or  Englishmen  discuss-^ 
ing  the  match,  or  laying  bets.  Yet  Ed  had  not  spoken  of  it. 

But  at  last  it  had  reached  him. 

"Tough  luck,  Hilda,"  he  observed,  as  they  seated  them- 


THE   HONEY  BEE  213 

selves  at  the  Lucas  for  a  leisurely  dinner — "here  I  am  sail- 
ing on  the  very  day  of  the  Moran-Carpentier  fight.  Can 
you  beat  it !  Been  traveling  so  hard,  away  from  the  papers, 
I  didn't  know  it  was  coming  so  quick,  or  I'd  a-planned  bet- 
ter. Thought  it  was  next  month.  It  ought  to  be  you  go- 
ing and  me  staying.  Ain't  that  just  the  way !  Here  you've 
got  all  the  chance  in  the  world  to  see  a  real  big  thing,  and 
it's  wasted  on  you." 

"Xot  wasted,  Ed.    I'm  interested." 

""Well,  but  what's  that  ?  You  aren't  crazy  about  it.  It 
doesn't  mean  anything  to  you.  Now  with  me — I've  seen 
Moran  fight.  And  I  met  him'  once — over  here,  last  year." 

Hilda  smiled  faintly,  and  was  silent. 

"Tell  you  what,  though,  Hilda" — Ed  looked  very  know- 
ing— "I  got  a  tip  last  night.  From  a  fellow  on  the  train — 
an  English  newspaper  man,  who's  been  down  to  Moran's 
training  camp.  He  says  if  I  can  get  any  odds  on  Moran 
to  grab  'em  up.  Moran's  in  wonderful  shape.  They  aren't 
saying  anything  in  the  papers,  but  last  week  he  knocked 
Al  Banning  cold,  and  with  eight-ounce  gloves.  Think  o' 
that!  Banning's  quit  him  now.  Said  they  couldn't  pay 
him  enough  to  take  any  more  o'  that." 

It  was  on  the  following  evening,  the  twenty-third,  that 
Hilda  was  to  dine  with  Ed  for  the  last  time.  She  was 
Qressing  for  the  occasion  when  Adele  handed  her  an  en- 
velope in  an  unfamiliar  hand — a  large  boyish  hand.  The 
postmark  was  Orleans. 

The  note  within  was  characteristic: 


"DEAE  HILDA  :  I  will  be  back  the  24th  about  noon. 
Will  be  pretty  busy,  having  to  weigh  in  at  3  o'clock  and 
other  things.  If  I  don't  see  you  in  p.  m.  will  call  for  you 
at  nine  o'clock  in  evg. — Yrs.  truly,  ALBERT  MOEAN." 


214  THE   HONEY   BEE 

She  kept  this  note  by  her,  and  as  soon  as  Hilda  returned 
to  her  own  room  read  it  again.  Then,  when  Ed's  card  came 
up,  she  folded  the  note  and  slipped  it  into  her  bodice.  It 
was  hidden  there  when  she  descended  the  stairs  and  joined 
her  escort  of  the  evening. 

As  they  left  the  hotel  and  turned  toward  the  Eue  Tron- 
chet,  it  occurred  to  Hilda  that  Ed  was  unusually  quiet. 
She  wondered  a  little.  Also  he  was  deferential,  with  some- 
thing of  that  amusingly  ceremonial  manner  he  had  exhib- 
ited just  before  his  fight  with  Will  Harper. 

The  first  thing  he  said  after  the  dinner  was  ordered  and 
the  English-speaking  maitre  d'hotel  had  left  them  to  their 
own  devices,  was — 

"Hilda,  I've  been  thinking  you  over,  and  do  you  know 
I  believe — you  won't  mind  my  saying  this  ?" 

"Of  course  not,  Ed.    Let's  have  it  I" 

" — Well,  I  believe  you've  got  the  wrong  notion  of  this 
vacation  thing." 

Hilda's  heart  quickened.  There  was  something  back  of 
this. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Ed." 

"Well,  now,  suppose  we  look  at  it  this  way."  He  planted 
his  elbows  on  the  table,  frowned,  and  bristled  up  his  mus- 
tache. Hilda  knew  the  signs.  Ed  had  a  "proposition"  to 
"put  over" — one  that  he  himself  regarded  as  difficult. 
"Here  you  are,  booked  for  a  vacation,  a  real  rest.  You're 
in  Paris — the  meanest  city  on  earth  for  a  girl  like  you — a 
good-looking  girl — to  be  alone  in.  Bound  to  be  trouble  for 
you,  any  way  you  turn.  And  God  knows  it  ain't  restful. 
It's — it's  hectic.  Hectic!  .  .  .  Now  from  the  things 
you've  told  me — just  what  you've  let  drop  now  and  then — 
it  won't  be  any  easier  if  you  try  to  travel  around  Europe 
alone.  Now  will  it  ?" 


THE  HONEY  BEE  215 

Hilda  admitted  this,  with  a  movement  of  her  hand. 

"Well,  now,  here's  what  I've  been  thinking.  You  cut  out 
this  here  Latin  Quarter  stuff  and  come  back  home.  You 
'don't  want  to  come  to  the  store — I  can  see  all  that — but — 
well,  I  know  a  place  up  in  the  Berkshires  that  is  the  ideal 
place  for  you.  Oh,  I  know  you  can't  just  sit  around  hotels. 
But  this  way  you  won't  have  to.  It's  a  year-round  place. 
Great  for  exercise — riding,  golf  and  things.  Nice  quiet 
people.  Nobody  can  say  anything  about  you.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Hartman  run  up  there  a  good  deal  in  their  car  for 
week  ends.  And  the  Hemsteads.  Mr.  Hartman  and  Joe 
Hemstead  both  like  the  golf  course  there." 

Hilda  let  him  run  on,  while  her  own  thoughts,  behind  a 
quiet  mask,  darted  hither  and  thither.  Something  had 
happened.  Ed  was  downright  worried  about  her — and  sud- 
denly, since  last  night.  And  she  let  him  go  on  because  she 
dreaded  facing  the  issue. 

The  dinner  became  a  debate.  She  gave  him,  frankly 
enough,  the  reasons  why  she  felt  unwilling  to  return  to  the 
states.  She  gave  him,  as  well,  several  opportunities  to  be 
explicit.  He  did  not  grasp  these  opportunities.  Which 
concerned  her  the  more.  For  Ed  was  not  ordinarily  secre- 
tive, excepting  in  a  trade. 

Finally,  after  the  dessert  and  coffee,  she  herself  leaned 
forward  on  the  table  and  looked  straight  at  his  bulging  eyes. 

"You'd  better  tell  me  what  it  is,  Ed.  Something  has 
happened." 

Ed  studied  his  coffee  cup ;  stirred  his  spoon  slowly  round 
among  the  dregs. 

"Are  they  still  talking  at  Armandeville's — about  me  ?" 

Ed  bristled  his  mustache,  then  slowly  nodded. 

Hilda  considered  this.  Then,  as  with  a  sudden  flash  of 
insight,  she  broke  out— 


216  THE   HONEY  BEE 

"Ed,  that  is  not  it.    There's  something  more." 

Still  he  was  silent. 

"You  have  heard  from  home,  Ed." 

He  slowly  raised  his  eyes.    He  nodded. 

"And  that's  why  you  want  the  Hartmans  and  the  Hem- 
steads  to  see  me." 

"Well,  Hilda—" 

"Careful,  Ed.    Not  too  loud." 

" — you  see,  I  know  you're  all  right.  And  they'll  know  it, 
too,  once  they  get  a  good  look  at  you.  Why,  Hilda,  you 
look  even  better  to  me.  I  may  as  well  tell  you — I  used  to 
think  you  were — well,  just  a  little  hard.  Sometimes.  But 
this  experience,  the  baby,  and  all  of  it,  has  humanized  you, 
somehow.  You  seem  bigger.  I  was  thinking  just  to-day 
that  some  real  experience  like  this  was  more  what  you 
needed,  all  along,  than  a  rest.  It  seems  to  be  bringing 
something  out  that  was  hidden  before." 

"And  so  you  want  me  to  give  up  this  wonderful  experi- 
ence and  go  back  to  what  you  call  a  'rest'  ?" 

"Well,  but  that  is  just  the  practical  side  of  it,  Hilda. 
It's  what  they  all  think,  and  what  you  may  have  to  pay 
eome  day — all  your  life,  perhaps — just  because  you  let  them 
go  on  misunderstanding  you.  .  .  .  I've  seen  what  you're 
doing  here,  you  see.  I  know  the  whole  thing,  just  what 
your  life  is.  And  I  tell  you,  it's  great.  I'm  for  you.  But 
how  are  you  going  to  make  them  understand,  thinking 
about  Paris  in  the  nasty  way  all  of  us  do,  and  with  a  lot 
of  knockers  kicking  up  a  fuss !" 

Blink's  note,  hidden  within  her  bodice,  burned  against 
Hilda's  breast. 

"Tell  me  just  what  has  happened,  Ed — just  what  they 
are  saying.  I  have  a  right  to  know." 

"Yes,  you  have,  of  course.     Well,  they're  saying— it 


THE   HONEY   BEE  217 

seems  to  Have  got  pretty  much  all  around  the  store,  and 
probably  outside,  in  the  trade — you  know  how  it  would 
be—"  ' 

Hilda  inclined  her  head. 

" — that  you're  staying  with  a  fast  crowd  here  in  Paris, 
and  that  you've — " 

"Say  it,  Ed." 

""Well — that  you've  'gone  to  pieces/  " 

"Who  is  saying  it,  Ed?" 

"Well — of  course — " 

"Is  it  Stanley  Aitcheson?" 

"Well,  yes,  I  believe  so.  And  May  Isbell  some,  too,  I'm 
afraid." 

"Those  two  would  be  the  ones,  of  course." 

Ed  spoke  up.  "Now  you  know,  Hilda,  you  can't  run 
these  things  down  absolutely.  I'm  just  giving  you  my  own 
guesses  after  putting  two  and  two  together." 

They  fell  silent.    Hilda  appeared  to  be  musing,  calmly. 

Ed  watched  her.  He  saw  the  color  creep  into  her  cheeks, 
faintly,  in  two  round  spots  over  her  cheek-bones.  Except- 
ing for  these  spots  of  color  she  looked  rather  white.  Her 
skin  was  very  fine  in  texture.  Ed  thought  again,  as  he  had 
thought  on  many  occasions,  that  Hilda  was  a  mighty  good- 
looking  woman.  He  thought,  too,  that  it  was  too  bad  about 
these  good-looking  women  in  business.  What  were  you  to  do 
with  them !  And  what  on  earth  were  they  to  do  with  them- 
selves! .  .  . 

Then  he  realized  that  she  was  speaking — very  calmly, 
very  deliberately,  looking  right  at  him.  Her  eyes  were 
open  and  honest.  She  frightened  him  a  little. 

"Since  we've  got  this  far,  Ed,  I  think  I  had  better  give 
you  one  more  bit  of  information — just  to  clear  my  slate." 

>She  drew  out  Blink's  note  and  gave  it  to  him. 


218  THE   HONEY  BEE 

"Do  you  want  me  to  read  this,  Hilda  ?" 

She  nodded — with  compressed  lips. 

"Why,  this—"    Ed  stopped  short.    Then:    "This  is—" 

"That  is  the  famous  Blink  Moran,  Ed." 

"And  you  know  him." 

She  nodded.  She  saw  his  glance  rest  for  a  second  time 
on  the  "Dear  Hilda." 

"I'm  going  to  the  fight  with  him,  Ed." 

"You — just  you  two — " 

"Yes." 

"But  it's  so  conspicuous.    People  will  think — " 

"Yes,  Ed,  people  will  think.  What  of  it?  People  are 
thinking  anyway." 

Ed  slowly,  very  slowly,  folded  the  paper  and  handed  it 
"back.  He  was  ceremonious  again.  And  he  was  bristling 
tis  mustache. 

Finally  he  said,  after  clearing  his  throat — "Hilda,  what 
on  earth  do  you  want  me  to  think  ?" 

"Ed,"  said  she  then,  with  a  little  flash  of  fire  in  her  tone, 
"ask  me  any  question  that's  in  your  mind." 

He  struggled  for  a  moment  with  painful  thoughts.  Thea 
• — muttering,  "By  God,  I  will!" — he  returned  her  steady 
gaze,  and  said — • 

"Hilda,  is  there  anything — are  you — " 

"You  mean,  is  there  anything — well,  serious,  between  me 
iand  Blink  Moran?" 

"I  guess  that's  what  I  mean." 

Deliberately,  rather  coldly,  she  replied — • 

"No." 

It  was  on  her  tongue  then  to  add,  impulsively — "It  is 
really  all  right,  Ed !  I  loved  a  man  once,  and  it  was  not 
Moran.  I'm  simply  going  to  this  fight  because  he  has  asked 
me  and  because  it  will  be  interesting."  These  and  other 


THE   HONEY  BEE  219 

explanatory  sentences  clamored  for  utterance.  But  some- 
thing coldly  honest  within  her  held  them  back.  Her  one 
short  "no"  had  been  the  truth — the  truth  of  to-day.  It 
might  not  be  true  of  to-morrow.  She  knew  herself  now  for 
a  human  being.  She  could  not  forever  go  on  suppressing 
those  deep  yearnings  and  stirrings  that  make  life  the  tangle 
it  is.  ...  Besides,  there  had  been  an  unintentional  em- 
phasis in  the  very  manner  with  which  she  had  led  up  to 
this  disclosure.  Ed,  when  all  was  said  and  done,  was  no 
fool.  He  knew  now  that  the  occasion  bore  a  peculiar  im- 
portance in  her  own  feelings. 

But  even  at  that,  the  moment  brought  its  compensations. 
She  was  conscious  of  a  deep  stirring  sense  of  utter  honesty. 
At  least,  and  at  last,  she  was  truthful  with  Ed.  After  the 
furtiveness  that  had  clouded  her  spirit,  and  the  searching, 
twisting  tortures  of  suspicion  borne  in  to  her  from  the  ugly 
world  about  her,  there  was  a  rough  joy  in  taking  the 
straight  blow  and  meeting  it  with  the  unqualified  truth. 
It  was  a  climax.  It  was  an  end  to  the  terrors  of  fear  and 
suspense.  .  .  .  She  was  a  pariah !  Well  and  good !  The 
fact  released  her,  gave  her  freedom  to  be  herself. 

They  said  little  during  the  walk  back  to  the  hotel.  Ed 
was  sober.  She  knew  he  was  perplexed.  But  she  had 
rested  her  case. 

At  the  door  he  took  her  hand. 

"Good-by,  Ed,"  she  said,  rather  quickly.  "I  hope  you 
have  a  good  voyage." 

'Thanks,  Hilda." 

"And  give  my  regards  to — "  she  stopped;  a  faint  cold 
smile  came  to  her  face.  He  saw  it  by  the  dim  light  of  the 
street  lamp  on  the  corner. 

Then  she  finished — "to  any  one  that  cares!"  pressed  hia 
hand,  and  entered  the  building 


220  THE   HONEY   BEE 

She  waited  all  that  next  afternoon — the  twenty-fourth — 
in  her  room.  Adele  offered  to  relieve  her  while  she  took 
her  usual  walk,  but  on  one  pretext  or  another  she  evaded 
a  direct  reply.  More  than  once,  as  the  hours  wore  away, 
she  felt  Adele's  eyes  on  her — those  "cow  eyes,"  as  she  had 
once  called  them ;  now  rather  big,  set  in  a  more  than  usually 
composed  face.  Adele  stayed  in  too. 

Hilda  once  or  twice  spoke  of  slipping  into  a  negligee  and 
taking  a  nap.  But  every  moment  she  was  thinking  that 
he  would  come,  would  tap  at  her  door,  would  enter  as  a 
matter  of  friendly  right;  and  so  she  kept  herself  fully 
'dressed.  It  seemed,  even  to  herself,  rather  absurd  to  be 
self-conscious  about  her  attire — with  Blink !  During  those 
hard  painful  nights  of  watching  and  working  over  the  baby 
she  had  been  clad  anyhow — as  it  happened — without  a 
thought.  But  self-conscious  she  certainly  had  become. 

Neither  she  nor  Adele  mentioned  his  name  during  that 
long  afternoon.  Hilda  had  not  told  Adele  of  her  plan  to  go 
to  the  fight.  The  nearest  she  came  now  to  mentioning  it 
was  in  the  remark,  the  extremely  casual  remark — 

"You  don't  expect  to  be  out  to-night,  Adele?" 

To  which  the  girl,  first  glancing  at  her,  then  turning 
away,  replied — 

"Not  that  I'd  thought  of.    No,  I'll  be  home." 

It  was  just  before  six  o'clock  when  Hilda  finally  heard 
the  familiar  quick,  light  step  in  the  hall. 

She  held  her  breath,  awaiting  the  tap  at  the  door. 

There  it  was. 

"Come  in !"  she  called.  The  baby  was  awake,  and  quietly 
enjoying  the  flavor  of  two  small  fingers.  Adele  was  in  her 
own  room. 

He  entered.  Hilda,  standing  by  the  baby's  basket,  ex- 
tended a  friendly  left  hand  which  he  took  and  held. 


THE   HONEY  BEE  221 

"She's  a  lot  better,"  said  he,  peering  into  the  basket. 

"Improving  every  day,  Blink." 

He  pressed  her  hand.  It  was  a  frankly  affectionate  little 
squeeze. 

Hilda  felt  the  color  come  rushing  to  her  cheeks;  and 
tried,  silent,  to  fight  it  back. 

She  took  advantage  of  BlinKs  absorption  in  the  baby  to 
study  him.  He  was  only  a  little  thinner — there  were  the 
Bame  broad  shoulders,  the  same  deep  chest.  His  face  waa 
bronzed  and  a  little  drawn.  There  were  lines  in  it.  And, 
despite  his  interest  in  herself,  and  in  the  baby  that  they 
two  had  saved,  he  had  an  air  of  preoccupation.  That  was 
Natural. 

"Got  to  run  along,  Hilda,"  he  said.    "Be  ready  at  nine." 

She  nodded.  Then  the  door  had  softly  closed,  and  he 
was  gone.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  had  called  out  a  greet- 
ing to  Adele ;  but  she  was  not  certain.  Her  thoughts  were 
deep  within  herself. 

Hilda  had  never  in  her  life  dressed  with  greater  care 
than  she  employed  on  this  occasion.  Blink  had  never  seen 
her  at  her  best,  or  anything  like  it.  "Well  ...  he  would 
see  her  at  her  best  to-night !  He  would  not  know  that  her 
gown  had  come  from  Callot's.  He  would  not  know  that 
the  opera  wrap  of  old  rose  fringed  and  lined  with  snowy 
fur,  had  been  picked  up,  and  not  at  a  bargain,  for  this  very 
occasion.  It  would  not  occur  to  him  that  her  rather  luxu- 
riant hair  had  been  arranged  with  a  simplicity  that  only 
some  thought  and  care  could  produce.  He  would  merely 
know  that  the  woman  who  was  to  appear  at  the  great 
gathering  by  his  side — his  friend  and  companion,  before 
the  ugly,  if  momentarily  admiring  world — was  a  woman 
of  whom  he  could  be  proud.  She  was  seeing  to  that.  He 
would  find  her  a  thoroughbred — he  would  be  proud. 


THE   HONEY   BEE 

She  was  ready  at  a  quarter  to  nine.  Then  she  counted 
Beconds.  Adele,  pleading  a  headache,  had  closed  her  door 
and  was  lying  down. 

Finally  he  came — in  immaculate  evening  dress,  as  on 
that  other  evening,  long  ago — oh,  so  long  ago ! — when  he 
had  escorted  her  to  this  same  Luna  Park,  this  extremely 
French  Luna  Park,  out  by  the  Porte  Maillot.  She  won- 
dered, as  he  paused  in  the  doorway  and  gazed  at  her — yes, 
she  had  broken  through  his  preoccupation  now! — if  he 
thought  of  the  modest  gray  sparrow  she  had  looked  on  that 
evening. 

She  could  not  tell  what  he  was  thinking.  But  she  saw 
his  eyes — soberer  and  deeper  set  than  before — light  up. 
And  she  could  not  resent  the  frankness  with  which  he  stud- 
ied her  from  head  to  foot — he  looked  so  pleased. 

"All  right,  Hilda,"  he  said.    "Taxi's  here." 

She  walked  down  the  stairs  by  his  side.  They  passed  the 
round-shouldered  little  manager  of  the  hotel,  and  she  held 
her  head  high.  He  handed  her  into  the  taxi — got  in  beside 
her — the  door  slammed — they  were  off. 

They  did  not  speak.  He  was  preoccupied  again.  That 
was  all  right ;  he  ought  to  be  preoccupied. 

He  reached  over  with  a  big  gloved  hand,  and  felt  for  one 
of  her  hands.  She  let  him  find  it.  He  gripped  it. 

She  winced.  He  did  not  realize  the  strength  in  that 
hand  of  his. 

She  stole  more  than  one  glance  at  him,  there  in  the  semi- 
darkness.  He  was  leaning  a  little  forward,  gazing  at  the 
chauffeur's  back.  His  mouth  was  firmly  set.  The  new 
lines  in  his  face  were  deep  shadows.  .  .  .  His  grip 
tightened  on  her  hand. 

Finally  she  said : 

"Not  too  hard,  Blink.    I'm  not  Carpentier  !* 


THE   HONEY   BEE  223 

"Oh. !"  he  exclaimed ;  and  released  her  hand.  He  did  not 
•turn  his  head,  did  not  even  smile.  An  uprush  of  almost 
mother-like  sympathy  softened  her  thoughts  of  self.  She 
suddenly  realized  what  a  night  this  was  to  be — for  him! 
Almost  certainly  it  was  the  turning  point  in  his  career.  He 
had  told  her  before  he  left  Paris,  that  the  time  would  soon 
pass  in  his  life  when  it  would  be  possible  to  submit  him- 
self to  the  rigorous  training  that  was  necessary  for  this 
fight.  She  knew,  as  she  watched  him,  as  she  felt  his  solid 
shoulder  warm  against  her  own,  that  all  his  courage,  all  his 
will-power,  all  his  splendid  native  character,  were  to  be  put 
to  the  test  this  night.  There  was  an  extraordinary  thrill  in 
the  thought. 

She  reached  out  now,  found  his  hand,  and  nestled  hers 
within  it. 

"It's  all  right,  Blink,"  she  breathed.  "Only  don't  hurt 
me.  You  are  strong,  you  know." 

He  glanced  around  at  her  now,  witH  half  a  smile;  and 
squeezed  her  hand,  very  gently. 

She  returned  the  pressure. 

Through  the  cab  window  she  saw  a  blaze  of  electric 
lights  in  circles  and  arches. 

"Luna  Park,"  said  he. 


XVII 

IN  WHICH  THE  TWO  PEESOXS  OF  IMPOETANCE  FINALLY  DO 
MEET  IN  A  BUSINESS  WAT ;  WITH  IMPEESSIONS  OF  A  LIT- 
TLE WOELD  THAT  IS,  TO  PUT  IT  MILDLY,  EATHEE  BIZAEEE 

THE  chauffeur,  at  a  word  from  Moran,  drove  on  past 
the  long  line  of  taxis  and  private  cars  before  turning 
in  to  the  curb.  Then  Moran  and  Hilda  walked  back 
through  the  groups  of  idlers  and  followers  of  the  sport  that 
crowded  the  area  outside  the  plaster  gates.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  there  were  thousands  of  these  men  and  boys,  most 
of  them  roughly  dressed.  Newsboys  were  shouting.  Pro- 
gram venders  and  speculators  in  tickets  were  thrusting 
their  wares  under  her  eyes.  From  the  close  line  of  automo- 
biles at  the  curb  streamed  men  in  evening  dress,  each 
shouldering  and  elbowing  a  way  for  the  richly  gowned 
woman  at  his  side. 

Hilda  waited,  with  an  eager  sort  of  dread,  for  the  mo^ 
ment  when  her  escort  would  be  recognized  for  the  celebrity 
of  the  evening.  This  moment  came  before  they  were  half- 
way to  the  gate.  There  was  a  sudden  hush  in  that  part  of 
the  crowd  immediately  about  them;  then  low  excited 
voices.  Old  and  young  closed  in  around  and  behind  them. 
There  were  a  few  friendly  shouts;  and  then,  slowly,  the 
crowd  parted  before  them. 

Moran  had  taken  her  arm,  and  was  rushing  her  rapidly 
along.  He  seemed  quite  unconscious  of  the  respectful,  at 
moments  almost  worshipful,  attitude  of  the  crowd.  As  far 

224 


THE   HONEY  BEE  225 

as  she  could  observe,  he  was  thinking  only  of  hurrying  her 
to  the  comparative  shelter  of  the  gates. 

A  moment  more  and  she  found  herself  handed  through 
the  entrance  to  the  main  building,  and  standing  apart  from 
the  crowd.  Confronting  her  was  an  absurd  little  man — 
apparently  very  young — with  a  bad  complexion  and  an  en- 
thusiastic smile  that  disclosed  an  extraordinary  array  of 
gold  teeth.  He,  like  Moran,  was  in  evening  dress.  This, 
Moran's  brusk  introduction  made  plain,  was  Henry  Huy- 
bers.  Hilda  gave  him  a  second  glance,  as  she  took  his 
eagerly  proffered  hand;  and,  with  some  small  effort,  con- 
cealed her  amusement. 

Already  another  little  crowd  was  forming.  She  glanced 
about,  and  saw  a  number  of  Americans  and,  she  thought, 
Englishmen.  Yes,  it  was  conspicuous !  The  color  came 
again  to  her  cheeks,  as  it  had  when  Ed  Johnson  had  given 
her  that  latest  distressing  word  from  home.  But  her  head 
was  high.  Moran  was  speaking  hurriedly  to  his  manager. 
Henry  Huybers  was  listening,  and  nodding, but  Hilda  could 
feel  his  eyes  on  her  in  crude  admiration.  His  expression 
conveyed  every  distasteful  thought  that  Blink  had  feared 
when  he  first  spoke  of  her  coming — thoughts  that  she  had 
then  brushed  aside.  Well,  she  would  brush  them  aside 
again ! 

Suddenly  Blink  bent  toward  her,  said,  very  low — ''Wish 
me  luck,  Hilda !" — and  turned  away.  Her  eyes  followed 
him  as  he  moved  swiftly  through  the  crowd  toward  a  door 
in  the  corner  of  the  great  hall  and  finally  disappeared. 
Then  she  realized  that  little  Mr.  Huybers  was  speaking, 
and  again  let  her  eyes  rest  on  him.  That  touch  of  high 
color  was  still  on  her  cheeks ;  and  she  was  smiling  faintly. 
So  this  queer  little  man  was  the  well-known  "manager" 
whose  name  had  appeared  so  frequently  in  the  papers  of 


226  THE   HONEY  BEE 

late — the  man  who,  Blink  had  said,  "would  bet  his  grand- 
mother's last  pair  of  shoes  on  a  fight."  Yes,  this  rather  un- 
pleasantly boyish  man  was  the  somewhat  celebrated  Henry 
Huybers.  "Just  a  born  gambler/'  Blink  had  added  to  his 
characterization — "but  he's  a  hustler." 

He  led  the  way  now  down  a  long  aisle  to  a  seat  near  one 
corner  of  the  ring.  And  Hilda  reflected  deeply  as  she  fol- 
lowed. When  she  and  Blink  were  together  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  think  of  his  queer  business  as  she  was  now  compelled 
to  think  of  it.  Henry  Huybers  represented  the  other,  the 
almost  grotesquely  disagreeable,  side  of  that  business.  Evi- 
dently he  was  a  sharp,  eager,  unscrupulous  little  man.  She 
even  nursed  the  whimsical  doubt,  watching  his  narrow 
shoulders  hitching  nervously  from  side  to  side  as  he  walked 
before  her,  that  his  accounts  would  probably  bear  inspec- 
tion. He  was,  of  course,  a  parasite,  living  on  Blink's  work. 
And  she  was  suddenly  quite  certain  that  he  was  cheating 
his  principal  at  every  turn.  By  the  time  he  had  reached  the 
ringside  seats  and  had  turned  to  face  her,  she  had  arrived 
at  a  definite  resentment  against  him.  And  she  was  de- 
pressed. The  color  had  left  her  cheeks.  Her  smile  was 
gone. 

Huybers,  visibly  struggling  against  a  sudden  new  embar- 
rassment, said : 

"Miss  Wilson,  let  me  make  you  acquainted  with  Mrs. 
Huybers." 

Seated  before  them  was  a  large  woman,  unnaturally 
blonde.  She  wore  a  number  of  diamond  rings,  diamond 
earrings,  and  a  diamond  and  ruby  pendant  on  her  fat  neck. 
Her  evening  gown  was  cut  quite  low,  in  the  extreme 
Parisian  manner.  The  skin  of  her  face  and  neck  was  enam- 
eled smooth.  Her  hair  was  piled  into  a  structure  which 
had  cost  some  coiffeur  all  of  two  hours  of  conscientious 


THE   HONEY   BEE  227 

labor.  She  appeared  older  than  the  nervously  smiling 
Henry,  as  well  as  larger. 

She  met  Hilda's  coldly  courteous  greeting  with  a  stare. 
She  was  hostile.  And  with  scrutiny  of  the  tall,  well-poised, 
distinctly  beautiful  woman,  her  hostility  deepened  to  indig- 
nation. 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Wilson,"  she  said.  The  words 
came  crisply  out  of  an  immobile  face.  "I  believe  you  are  to 
sit  here."  And  she  removed  her  wrap  from  the  chair  next 
her  own. 

Hilda  felt  that  she  was  judged.  It  was  as  Blink  had 
foreseen.  Though  she  knew  that  could  Blink's  mind  have 
compassed  the  extent  and  depth  of  Mrs.  Huybers'  scorn  he 
would  never  have  permitted  Hilda  to  set  foot  within  the 
hall.  For  Blink  could  not  conceivably  understand  the  bit- 
terness that  the  safely  married  woman  of  uncertain  past  is 
capable  of  feeling  toward  a  more  beautiful  woman  whose 
legal  position  among  men  is  in  doubt. 

Mrs.  Huybers,  however,  knew  that  her  own  Parisian 
gown,  her  not  inexpensive  coiffeur,  her  very  jewels,  were  re- 
sults of  Moran's  prowess.  Therefore  she  must  accept  the 
woman.  And  still  crisply,  in  a  voice  that  struggled  to  hide 
its  inherent  hardness,  she  spoke  of  the  crowd,  Moran's  con- 
dition and  Carpentier's,  and  of  the  probable  gross  receipts. 

Hilda  answered  in  kind,  while  her  eyes  roved  over  the 
great  hall.  She  thought  of  her  only  other  appearance  here 
— also  with  Moran — and,  with  little,  twisting,  painful 
thoughts,  of  the  distance  she  had  gone  with  him  since. 

A  band  was  playing.  The  sound,  however,  was  all  but 
lost  in  the  immense  space  beneath  that  roof  of  steel  and 
glass  and  flags  and  gay-colored  lights.  The  thousands  upon 
thousands  of  seats  were  nearly  all  filled  now;  and  streams 
of  people  were  pouring  down  the  aisles.  She  wondered 


THE   HONEY  BEE 

where  tHey  could  all  find  places.  Faintly,  from  a  far  cor- 
ner of  the  gallery,  came  the  sounds  of  an  amusing  contest ; 
boys  and  men  were  braying,  neighing  and  cackling.  One 
youth,  with  a  peculiar  gift  for  crowing  like  a  very  small 
rooster,  was  finally  hailed  as  victor.  Again  and  again,  as 
the  others  gave  up,  his  shrill  falsetto  vied  with  the  muffled 
blare  of  the  distant  band,  until  even  the  dignified  folk  of 
the  main  floor  burst  into  laughter  and  applause. 

There  must  have  been  two  thousand  women  in  the  hall. 
It  was  gay  with  their  white  and  blue  and  pink  and  yellow. 
Scattered  everywhere  were  the  inevitable  army  officers — in 
red  and  gray-blue  and  deep  blue — with  much  gleaming  and 
glinting  of  gilt. 

Men  were  climbing  into  the  ring  now.  An  extremely  fat 
announcer  in  evening  dress  got  himself  in  between  the 
ropes.  It  occurred  to  Hilda  that  the  inevitable  "prelimina- 
ries" would  be  going  on.  Sure  enough,  two  slim  youths  ap- 
peared in  opposite  corners,  rinsed  their  mouths  with  water 
from  bottles,  rubbed  their  shoes  briskly  in  the  powdered 
resin  that  lay  thick  on  the  canvas-covered  floor,  and  held 
out  their  bandaged  hands  while  their  seconds  adjusted  the 
gloves. 

The  fat  announcer  shouted  their  names  and  weights  in  a 
voice  that  reverberated  through  the  vast  spaces  of  the  hall. 
The  seconds  slipped  rapidly  out  of  the  ring.  The  referee, 
in  sleeveless  black  jersey,  called  the  slim  youths  to  the  cen- 
ter and  gave  them  his  final  instructions.  The  gong  clanged. 
And  the  great  audience  looked  up  with  listless  interest  as 
the  boxers,  suddenly  alert,  sprang  at  each  other  in  a  wild 
rushing  exchange  of  blows. 

It  was  a  rough  spectacle;  but  Hilda  had  come  prepared 
to  witness  a  rough  spectacle.  She  recalled  Blink's  quiet 
utterance  regarding  Carpentier — "I'm  going  to  put  him  to 


She  met  Hilda's  coldly  courteous  greeting  with  a  stare 


229 

Bleep  if  I  can."  And  again  she  felt  a  dread  that  was  not 
without  an  element  of  fascination.  She  watched  the  young 
fighters  before  her  with  keen  eyes,  studying  the  methods  of 
each  in  setting  about  his  curious  task.  The  taller  boy,  with 
longer  arms,  was  evidently  bent  on  holding  his  more  com- 
pact, more  nervously  active  opponent  at  arm's  length.  The 
shorter  youth  was  as  strongly  determined  to  rush  in  close 
and  land  short,  hard  body  blows. 

Hilda  followed  this  struggle  for  the  tactical  advantage 
with  kindling  interest.  Rough  as  it  was,  it  was  real — even, 
as  she  had  felt  after  that  earlier  introduction  to  the  most 
primitive  of  sports,  wholesome.  And  it  was  certainly  more 
agreeable  than  the  atmosphere  in  which  it  appeared  to 
thrive.  Henry  Huybers,  his  bleached  enameled  wife,  the 
seconds  and  hangers-on,  the  unpleasant  crowd  outside  the 
gates,  the  gamblers  who  had  a  finger  in  the  preliminary  ar- 
rangements— all  these  were  distressing.  Blink  himself  was 
not  like  these,  yet  they  formed  the  intimate  background  of 
his  life. 

The  first  round  was  still  in  progress.  The  shorter  boy 
was  still  rushing  violently.  There  was  a  stir  of  interest 
now  in  the  crowd.  The  short  boy  rushed  again.  Hilda 
heard  the  thud  of  the  blow  he  landed  on  the  slim  body  be- 
fore him — saw  the  taller  youth  wince  and  stagger  back, 
then,  hurt  and  angered,  plunge  forward  to  close  quarters. 
For  a  brief  moment  the  two  boys  stood  close,  bending  over, 
heads  together,  each  working  his  forearms  like  lightning. 
An  electric  thrill  ran  through  the  crowd.  The  gallery  sud- 
denly burst  into  an  enthusiastic  roar. 

Hilda  could  not  follow  the  blows.  But  she  saw  the  taller 
youth  suddenly  droop,  close  his  eyes  and  slip  senseless  to 
the  floor;  while  the  other  stood  over  him,  flushed  and  tri- 
umphant, eager  to  strike  again,  until  the  referee,  counting 


230  THE   HOXEY   BEE 

with  long  slow  sweeps  of  his  right  hand,  brushed  the  victor 
away  with  his  left. 

Hilda  felt  rather  weak.  And  the  noise  was  deafening. 
But  she  took  it  all  in — the  exulting  wave  of  the  victor's 
arms  and  the  wild  grin  on  his  somewhat  battered  face  as  he 
vaulted  the  ropes ;  the  rush  of  downcast  seconds  and  back- 
ers to  carry  the  vanquished  boy  to  his  corner  and  revive 
him  with  rough  massage  and  cold  sponges.  Under  this 
treatment  he  slowly  came  to  his  senses.  Then,  a  sick- 
appearing  youth,  he  was  helped  down  through  the  ropes 
and  down  the  long  aisle,  a  naked  glistening  arm  about  his 
manager's  neck. 

Hilda  was  turning  cold.  What  if  she  should  have  to  sit 
here  and  see  something  like  this  befall  Moran !  It  would 
be  dreadful.  She  was  not  sure  that  she  could  sit  still.  It 
was  incredible  that  such  a  thing  could  happen  to  the  strong 
solid  man  who,  right  now,  so  dominated  her  thoughts.  And 
yet  .  .  .  Carpentier  was  a  great  fighter,  the  champion 
of  France  and  England,  full  of  confidence,  a  master  of 
every  trick  and  device  known  to  ring  strategy. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  an  unpleasant  voice,  close  to  her  ear. 

Hilda  started,  and  turned. 

Mrs.  Huybers  had  twisted  her  plump  person  about  in  the 
narrow  chair,  and  was  folding  her  wrap  over  the  back. 
Hilda  moved  aside  and  gave  her  room. 

"Rather  exciting,"  observed  Hilda,  when  Mrs.  Huybers 
had  disposed  of  this  little  matter  to  her  satisfaction  and 
turned  again  toward  the  ring. 

The  fat  woman  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Oh,  yes,"  she 
replied,  languidly.  "But  what'd  he  expect.  He  oughta 
known  he  couldn't  fight  with  that  boy.  He  oughta've 
boxed." 

Hilda  kept  silent  after  this.    She  gathered  that  to  "box/' 


THE   HONEY   BEE  231 

in  this  sense,  meant  to  keep  one's  opponent  at  a  distance, 
blocking  him  off  with  the  hands  and  arms  rather  than  ex- 
changing blows  at  close  quarters,  rather  than — she  had 
picked  up  the  phrase  in  an  English  paper — trying  to  "beat 
him  to  the  punch."  And  she  added  this  bit  of  technical 
information  to  her  meager  store. 

Another  match  followed  almost  immediately.  Mrs.  Huy- 
bers  said  it  was  the  "main  preliminary."  Two  middle- 
weights,  men  of  some  skill,  fought  their  way  through  ten 
rounds  of  rapid  action,  amid  considerable  excitement. 

Hilda  did  not  share  in  the  excitement.  She  deliberately 
studied  the  strategy  and  tactics  of  the  battle.  Neither  mail 
lost  his  head  for  a  moment.  Each  appeared  able  to  weather 
an  exhausting  storm  of  blows  and  then  spring  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  a  momentary  opening.  Their  endurance  was, 
indeed,  quite  as  astonishing  as  their  alertness  and  agility. 

The  seats  occupied  by  Hilda  and  Mrs.  Huybers  were  in 
the  second  row  from  the  actual  ringside,  close  to  one  of  the 
corners  of  the  ring,  where  crouched  the  manager  and  han- 
dlers of  one  of  the  fighters — whispering  excitedly  together 
like  a  board  of  strategy  and  occasionally  uttering  low- 
voiced  instructions  to  their  man  in  the  ring.  Hilda  wished 
that  she  had  more  understanding  of  colloquied  French;  it 
would  have  been  interesting  to  catch  what  they  were  saying. 

She  could  not  see  that  either  of  these  contestants  held 
any  great  advantage  over  the  other.  At  the  finish  both  were 
strong.  When  the  final  bell  rang  they  actually  embraced, 
wreathed  in  sudden  smiles,  and  each  planted  a  kiss  on  the 
cheek  of  his  opponent.  Then  the  fat  announcer  entered  the 
ring,  collected  slips  of  paper  from  the  jury  that  was  scat- 
tered about  the  four  sides,  in  the  front  row  of  chairs,  and 
indicated  that  the  shorter  and  darker  of  the  two,  in  the  far 
corner,  was  the  "vainqueur" 


230  THE   HONEY  BEE 

Hilda  was  a  thought  puzzled  by  the  decision.  But  doubt- 
less, during  the  numerous  swift  exchanges,  the  dark  man 
had  actually  struck  the  greater  number  of  blows,  thereby 
accumulating  the  more  "points."  Evidently,  though,  her 
doubts  were  shared  by  others.  The  gallery  roared  its  dis- 
approval of  the  decision.  Even  on  the  main  floor,  the  ap- 
plause was  clouded  by  hisses  and,  from  small  groups  here 
and  there,  unmistakably  British  booings. 

But  this  little  protest  very  soon  died  out,  and  the  great 
audience  began  settling  itself  for  the  main  event.  The  offi- 
cials left  the  ring  and  stood  about  in  groups,  talking  with 
one  another  and  with  the  newspaper  men.  White-clad  at- 
tendants mopped  the  corners  of  the  ring,  and  brought  fresh 
pails  of  ice  and  bottles  and  sponges  and  towels.  New  per- 
sons appeared  at  the  ringside — men  with  poker  faces  and 
impenetrable  smiles.  The  famous  English  referee — the  one 
referee  on  whom  the  rival  camps  had  been  able  to  settle — • 
walked  rather  magnificently  down  the  aisle  and  seated  him- 
self on  a  corner  of  the  press  table.  He  wore  gray  flannels 
and,  like  his  predecessor,  a  sleeveless  jersey ;  and  had  drawn 
a  bath  towel  around  his  shoulders.  Men  crowded  about 
him,  asking  eager  questions  which  he  answered  curtly  or, 
now  and  again,  met  with  cool  silence.  .  .  .  "What  a  lit- 
tle world  it  was !  A  world  all  complete  within  itself ;  with 
its  princes  and  peasants,  its  failures  and  successes;  with, 
almost,  its  language ! 

Men  came  to  Mrs.  Huybers?  side.  Each  of  them  that 
stout  person  presented  to  Hilda  with  scrupulous  observ- 
ance of  their  common  interest.  To  most  of  these  Hilda 
found  she  could  not  talk  at  all.  They  were  types  of  the 
sporting  world,  distinctly.  Not  one  of  them  was  like  Mo- 
ran.  After  a  little  her  thoughts  wandered;  and  while  she 
reflected  on  the  strangeness  of  her  own  relation  to  this  queer 


THE   HONEY   BEE  233 

World,  she  looked  around  at  the  audience,  picking  out  a  fa- 
miliar face  here  and  there;  faces  of  business  men  she  had 
met  in  her  various  trips  to  Paris,  or  ship  acquaintances, 
and  others.  None  of  them  appeared  to  see  her.  She  was 
glad  of  this,  on  the  whole ;  though  she  shrank  from  nothing 
this  night.  .  .  .  And  more  and  more,  as  the  moments 
passed,  as  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Huybers  droned  like  sounding 
metal  in  her  ears,  as  self-important  attendants  hustled 
about  the  ringside,  as  the  great  audience  stirred  and  buzzed 
expectantly,  Hilda  felt  that  she  was  living  in  a  dream.  It 
was  utterly  unreal.  Her  life  of  the  last  few  weeks  appeared 
as  a  queer  blur  of  events  which  she  might  have  imagined, 
or  read  about,  or  witnessed  from  a  distance.  She  suddenly 
found  herself  thinking  how  amusing  it  would  be  to  wake 
up,  dress,  eat  her  light  breakfast,  and  take  the  subway 
down-town  to  the  store  and  the  routine  work  of  the  day. 
.  .  .  But  a  faint  throbbing  at  the  back  of  her  head  as 
suddenly  reminded  her  that  the  store  was  a  very  long  way 
off  indeed,  that  she  could  not  return  to  it  now;  not  now. 
And  then — suddenly,  sharply  real — came  the  stinging 
memory  of  that  last  talk  with  Ed  Johnson  .  .  .  what  he 
had  said  .  .  .  she  was  in  with  a  "fast  crowd" ;  she  had 
"gone  to  pieces."  .  .  .  How  absurd  it  was !  But  no, 
was  it  absurd  ? 

There  was  a  sharper  stir  at  the  rear  of  the  hall,  a  louder 
buzzing,  a  shout,  a  thrill,  a  roar.  And  then,  like  a  wave, 
the  immense  crowd  swept  to  its  feet. 

Hilda  put  her  hands  over  her  ears.  Then,  caught  by  the 
electric  excitement  of  the  yelling  audience,  she  rose  and 
looked  back  along  the  aisle. 

She  could  see  them  coming  rapidly  toward  her — the  tall 
blond  Carpentier,  in  a  bath  robe,  collar  turned  up  about 
his  shapely  head,  an  easy  smile  on  his  youthful  face.  At 


234  THE   HOXEY  BEE 

Els  side  was  a  man  in  evening  dress,  doubtless  his  manager. 
Three  men  in  jerseys  and  sweaters  crowded  close  at  his 
heels.  Other  men  followed,  with  still  more  pails  and  towels. 
And  behind  these,  still  others. 

The  great  man  gave  no  heed  to  the  friendly  hands  that 
reached  out  to  him  from  every  side.  He  brushed  past  the 
self-important  ones,  wearing  that  same  impersonal  smile, 
stepped  around  a  group  of  reporters,  ran  lightly  up  the 
steps,  ducked  between  the  ropes,  crossed  the  ring,  and 
seated  himself  on  the  stool  that  an  eager  attendant  placed 
for  him  in  the  corner.  A  moment  more,  and  he  was  all  but 
hidden  by  the  privileged  few  that  followed  him  up  the 
steps  and  crowded  about  him.  And  the  roar  of  five  thou- 
sand voices,  the  clapping  of  ten  thousand  hands,  the  stamp- 
ing of  thousands  of  feet,  drove  in  at  Hilda's  ear  drums 
until,  thrilled  but  a  thought  weak,  she  sank  to  her  chair 
and  looked  up  at  the  ring  with  sudden  and  momentarily 
complete  misgivings. 

There,  on  the  three-legged  stool,  his  lithe  hard  body  en- 
veloped in  the  bath  robe,  his  hands,  heavily  bandaged  about 
the  knuckles  and  down  almost  to  the  finger  tips,  extended 
comfortably  along  the  ropes  against  which  he  was  resting, 
all  relaxed,  smiling  up  at  his  eager-faced  manager,  radi- 
ating confidence  and  good-natured  self-control,  sat  the  idol 
of  France,  the  conqueror  of  England's  greatest,  the  youth 
on  whom  a  government  had  conferred  special  distinctions,' 
the  hero  of  the  entire  boxing  and  athletic  world  in  a  coun- 
try where  boxing  is  almost  an  honored  profession  and  not 
an  outlaw  pursuit  of  the  underworld. 

There  sat  the  great  Carpentier.  Within  the  next  two 
hours  either  this  great  champion  or  her  own  quiet  kindly 
Moran  would  leave  that  eighteen-foot  ring  a  beaten  man. 

They  were  going  to  fight,  those  two.  The  sense  of  unre- 


THE  HONEY  BEE  235 

ality  was  on  her  again.  She  had  to  tell  herself  that  this 
thing  was  so — that  her  Blink,  Blink  of  that  simple  com- 
radeship in  her  cramped  quarters  at  the  Hotel  de  1'Ame- 
rique,  of  those  long  quiet  walks  along  the  Seine,  was  actu- 
ally about  to  fight  this  confident  man.  Her  memory  took  to 
painting  sudden  vivid  pictures.  She  saw  him  holding  the 
baby;  carefully  wrapping  the  thin  little  body  in  a  towel 
and  dipping  it  in  the  tin  bathtub.  She  saw  him  sitting 
with  Adele's  arm  about  his  neck ;  and  resented  this. 

She  wondered  why  he  did  not  appear.  It  was  high  time. 
The  champion  was  waiting. 

Then  she  heard  applause.  Again  a  wave  of  interest  ran 
through  the  audience ;  but  this  had  nothing  of  the  intensity 
that  had  been  stirred  by  Carpentier's  appearance.  She 
turned.  There  he  was,  coming  along  the  aisle;  also  with 
his  little  group  of  seconds  and  handlers,  and  with  Henry 
Huybers  at  his  elbow.  Like  Carpentier,  Moran  wore  a 
bath  robe. 

He  passed  without  a  glance  of  recognition. 

Hilda  wished  that  the  audience  would  rise  and  cheer. 
But  they  did  not.  Carpentier  was  plainly  the  favorite. 
Moran  therefore  would  have  to  exert  himself  without  the 
support  of  the  crowd.  And,  she  reflected  soberly,  this 
would  make  a  difference — a  great  difference,  possibly. 

Moran  crossed  the  ring  and  gripped  the  champion's 
hand.  For  a  moment  they  chatted  pleasantly;  then  he  re- 
turned and  seated  himself  in  the  near  corner.  She  could 
have  spoken  to  him  with  only  a  slight  raising  of  the  voice ; 
but  she  sat  very  still. 

Henry  Huybers  took  off  his  coat  and  gave  it  to  Mrs. 
Huybers.  Then  he  mounted  the  ring,  crossed  over,  and 
examined  the  bandages  on  Carpentier's  hands — rather  os- 
tentatiously, Hilda  thought. 


236  THE   HONEY   BEE 

There  was  a  long  delay,  and  much  discussion  in  the  ring. 

Then,  while  each  of  the  contestants  talked  quietly  with 
his  backers,  the  fat  announcer  called  the  inevitable  series 
of  fighters  into  the  ring  and  made  them  known  to  the  audi- 
ence. Challenges  were  announced.  Several  of  the  awk- 
ward young  men  who  blushed  and  fumbled  with  their  hats 
as  they  bowed  to  the  great  assemblage  had  hopes  of  meeting 
the  winner  of  this  bout  at  some  future  time.  So  much 
Hilda  gathered  from  the  comments  of  the  sporting  gentle- 
men who  were  still  grouped  before  Mrs.  Huybers. 

One  of  them,  a  pleasant-faced  young  fellow  with  pale 
eyes,  whom  Hilda  had  seen  many  times  on  Atlantic  liners 
— a  card  player,  she  had  once  been  told — was  asking  ques- 
tions. 

She  heard  him  say : 

"Is  Blink  going  to  work  for  the  body  ?" 

Hilda  suppressed  an  impulse  to  shudder  at  this,  and 
forced  herself  to  listen  calmly.  She  desired  all  the  facts. 
For  this  affair,  brutal  though  it  might  be,  was  in  a  sense 
her  affair  now. 

"Yes,  I  believe  so,"  Mrs.  Huybers  replied,  casually. 

"That'll  mean  some  hard  going,"  mused  the  young  man. 
"For  they'll  both  be  doing  it." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Huybers,  "that's  Carpentier's  game, 
of  course.  But  Henry  won't  let  him  mix  it  much  right  at 
the  start.  Carpentier'll  tire  quicker,  you  know.  Blink's 
quite  a  little  stronger."  She  was  glib  enough.  She  cer- 
tainly had  a  strong  proprietary  interest  in  Moran.  "We'll 
let  Carpentier  rush  at  first,  you  know,  and  begin  mixing 
about  the  eighth  or  tenth  round." 

"That  is,"  observed  the  card  player,  thoughtfully,  "if 
nothing  happens  to  upset  the  dope." 


THE   HONEY   BEE  237 

"OH,  yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Huybers,  "Henry'll  use  his  judg- 
ment, of  course." 

The  gong  was  clanging  violently.  The  sporting  gentle- 
men scattered  to  their  seats.  The  referee  hung  his  bath! 
towel  on  a  corner  post  and  advanced  into  the  ring,  as  the 
seconds,  managers  and  visiting  fighters  hurried  out.  Car- 
pentier  slipped  off  his  bath  robe  and  handed  it  down 
through  the  ropes.  Then  he  rose,  kicked  the  stool  aside, 
grasped  the  ropes,  and  went  through  a  few  preliminary  ex- 
ercises to  flex  his  muscles. 

Again  that  electric  stir  was  felt  in  the  farthest  corner  of 
the  hall.  Men  and  women  sat  erect.  The  band  stopped 
abruptly.  There  was  a  hush  that  was  more  moving  than 
any  noise  could  have  been. 

Moran  now  let  his  bath  robe  slip  into  the  eager  hands  of 
Henry  Huybers ;  and  stood  erect. 

For  a  moment  Hilda's  eyes  dropped.  She  knew  that  he 
stood  there  in  all  the  beauty  of  his  perfectly  trained  body, 
as  she  had  seen  him  in  the  pictures ;  and,  for  the  moment, 
she  simply  could  not  look  at  him.  That  curiously  interest- 
ing set  of  statistics  was  running  through  her  mind — the 
precise  measurements  in  inches  and  fractions  of  inches  of 
neck,  chest,  biceps,  forearm,  waist,  thigh,  calf. 

When  she  raised  her  eyes,  the  two  men  were  standing  in 
the  center  of  the  ring,  listening  to  the  final  words  of  the 
referee. 

Blink  was  slimmer  than  she  would  have  thought  possible, 
slimmer  even  than  he  had  appeared  in  the  pictures.  He 
was  distinctly  lighter  than  his  opponent,  and  shorter.  But 
his  shoulders  were  broader,  and  his  chest  something  deeper. 
It  was  his  slender  waist  and  thinnish  legs  that  made  him 
appear  so  much  lighter  than  Carpentier.  At  the  moment 


238  THE   HONEY  BEE 

lie  turned  away  and  she  caught  her  first  full  view  of  his 
back.  Here,  she  instantly  decided,  lay  much  of  his  strength. 
It  was  a  beautifully  muscled  back,  big  and  powerful  about 
the  shoulders  and  curving  in  sharply  toward  the  waist  line. 

The  men  separated  and  returned  to  their  corners  for  a 
last  scrape  of  rubber-soled  shoes  on  the  powdered  resin. 
The  referee  raised  his  hand.  The  gong  clanged. 

The  men  whirled  around,  faced  each  other,  touched  right 
hands  in  the  perfunctory  greeting  of  ring  sportsmanship, 
and  squared  away. 


XVIII 

TWENTY  HOUNDS — TO  A  DECISION 

HILDA,  still  deliberately  controlling  the  emotions  that 
were  stirring  at  the  back  of  her  thoughts,  studied  the 
two  fighters. 

Carpentier,  at  the  sound  of  the  bell,  had  dropped  into  a 
crouch.  His  head  was  thrust  forward,  chin  down  against 
his  chest,  eyes  peering  out  from  beneath  heavy  blond  eye- 
lids. His  feet  were  well  apart,  the  left  one  advanced.  His 
arms  moved  before  his  head  in  quick  nervous  shiftings  and 
feintings.  They  were  never  still,  those  arms.  She  had 
heard  one  of  the  sporting  persons  observe  that  "Carpenteer" 
was  "a  great  two-handed  fighter."  From  his  position,  fac- 
ing Moran  almost  directly,  she  now  caught  the  meaning  of 
the  remark — simply  that  the  man  could  strike  effectively 
with  either  hand.  In  this  connection  she  recalled  that 
Blink  had  spoken,  before  he  left  for  the  training  camp,  of 
the  ".couple  of  youngsters"  Henry  had  employed  for  him, 
"to  practise  my  left  on."  Evidently  Blink  had  to  rely  more 
on  his  right  hand  than  on  his  left.  This  conclusion  was 
borne  out  by  his  fighting  pose.  He  had  turned  nearly  half 
around,  presenting  little  more  than  an  extended  left  arm 
and  shoulder  to  the  champion,  with  his  right  hand  held  a 
little  back,  ready  for  a  swing. 

The  two  men  eyed  each  other  narrowly  as  they  circled 
239 


240  THE   HONEY   BEE 

about,  each  studying  the  other's  pose,  eyes,  hands  and 
shoulders,  watching  intently  for  the  lightning-quick  move- 
ment of  eye  or  twitch  of  shoulder  muscle  that  would  signal 
the  intention  to  strike. 

Suddenly  Carpentier  danced  in  close,  his  shoulders  swing- 
ing in  a  series  of  rapid  feints.  Moran  receded.  In  the 
deep  hush  that  had  settled  over  the  great  audience  Hilda 
was  conscious  of  the  sound  of  their  resined  feet  shuffling 
on  the  canvas. 

They  circled  again.  Again  Carpentier  danced  toward  his 
opponent.  Again  his  shoulders  moved  in  that  curiously 
deceptive  way.  Then  he  rushed.  Moran  swung  forward 
to  meet  him.  Hilda  heard  the  thud  of  sharp  contact,  and 
saw  the  Frenchman  drive  his  right  hand  against  Moran'a 
body  with  all  the  strength  of  his  powerful  back  behind  the 
blow. 

The  audience  broke  into  a  sudden  sharp  yell.  But  Mo- 
ran was  striking  back,  hard  and  clean.  Carpentier  stepped 
away.  As  he  moved,  Moran's  right  hand  swung  in  over 
Carpentier's  shoulder  in  a  short,  hard,  astonishingly  swift 
blow.  It  did  not  appear  to  land  squarely,  but  it  threw  the 
Frenchman  momentarily  off  his  balance. 

Instantly  Moran  was  after  him,  tearing  in  with  hard 
body  blows,  and  a  swing  to  the  head  that  missed  by  a  scant 
inch.  The  Frenchman  ducked,  slipped  to  one  side,  and 
when  Moran  could  overcome  the  impetus  of  his  own  rush, 
was  clear  across  the  ring,  with  his  guard  up. 

Hilda's  breath  was  quite  gone.  She  sank  back  in  her 
chair,  struggling  against  the  sense  of  something  near  dis- 
may that  had  rushed  upon  her.  She  had  not  realized  that 
they  would  hit  so  hard.  None  of  the  other  boxers  that  she 
had  seen  in  her  very  limited  experience  at  the  ringside  had 
struck  with  such  speed  or  such  solid  strength.  It  was 


THE   HONEY   BEE  241 

wicked — vicious.  The  human  frame  could  not  be  expected 
to  withstand  those  savage  onslaughts.  Yet,  this  contest 
had  only  begun.  For  a  full  hour  and  twenty  minutes  these 
two  would  be  driving  at  each  other  in  that  primitive,  fero- 
cious way. 

She  had  wished,  on  so  many  occasions  during  the  last 
few  weeks,  that  she  might  see  the  real  Moran — the  Moran 
that  was  known  so  intimately  to  tens  of  thousands  of  fol- 
lowers of  this  queer  business  of  boxing.  Well,  she  was  see- 
ing him  now.  And  she  was  finding  that  she  did  not  know 
him  at  all.  It  was  quite  bewildering.  And  it  was  disturb- 
ing. The  ugly  dashing  power  of  the  man,  his  force  and 
speed,  his  evident  determination  to  hurt  this  other  man, 
depressed  her  at  the  very  moment  that  it  caught  her  up  in 
a  whirl  of  sheer  fascination.  She  did  not  want  to  see  it. 
She  wished  herself  anywhere  but  here.  But  she  could  not 
BO  much  as  look  away.  Her  wide  eyes  followed  every  move- 
ment of  this  strange  ferocious  being  who  had  lately  been 
so  close  to  her,  whom  she  had  all  but  admitted  into  her  life. 

The  two  men  were  breathing  harder  now.  She  could 
hear  them.  Their  smooth-skinned  bodies  were  shining 
with  sweat. 

Again  Carpentier  rushed.  Again  Moran  met  him 
squarely  and  exchanged  blows  with  him ;  then  slipped  for- 
ward into  a  clinch.  The  alert  referee  stepped  between  them 
as  he  pulled  them  apart. 

For  a  space  they  sparred  and  feinted,  each  watching 
keenly  for  an  opening.  Then  the  Frenchman  danced 
closer.  His  shoulders  moved  in  that  curiously  deceptive 
way.  He  shot  in  a  number  of  light  blows,  some  of  which 
Moran  certainly  blocked  with  his  arms.  But  when  Moran 
thrust  his  left  forward,  and  suddenly  followed  it  with  a 
hooking  stab  of  his  right,  Carpentier  danced  away. 


THE   HONEY  BEE 

Suddenly,  however,  in  the  very  act  of  retreating,  he 
leaped  forward,  and  left  and  right  landed  clean  on  the 
body  of  the  American.  Hilda  saw  Moran  wince,  and  knew 
that  the  blows  had  hurt.  For  an  instant  the  two  seemed 
to  be  exchanging  body  blows,  though  their  movements  were 
so  rapid  that  she  could  not  be  sure  that  either  was  really 
penetrating  the  other's  guard.  Certainly  Moran  did  not 
clinch  this  time.  In  a  moment  she  saw  the  reason.  She 
knew  that  one  of  the  rules  agreed  on  was  that  the  "clean 
break"  should  be  enforced.  Adele  had  explained  to  her 
the  meaning  of  the  phrase :  that  once  the  men  should  come 
so  close  that  each  was  holding  the  other  with  one  arm,  they, 
must  break  apart  without  striking.  This  was  why  the  ref- 
eree had  stepped  between  them  when  he  separated  them. 
Now  Moran,  his  arms  still  working  away  at  the  body  before 
him,  appeared  to  be  retreating  a  little  rather  than  clinch. 

Then,  all  at  once,  Hilda  saw  his  back  stiffen  and  swing 
forward ;  his  right  foot  moved  up,  and  his  right  arm  flashed 
up  over  Carpentier's  left.  The  brown  glove  landed  full  on 
the  side  of  the  Frenchman's  head,  just  below  the  ear,  with  a 
solid  thud. 

Carpentier  did  not  fall;  but  he  staggered  sidewise  clear 
to  the  ropes,  and  leaned  there  for  an  instant,  bent  over,  his 
gloves  and  forearms  closely  covering  his  face  and  the  vul- 
nerable spot  at  the  middle  of  the  body. 

A  roar  swept  up  from  the  audience  that  shook  the  great 
building.  Behind  her,  Hilda  could  hear  the  scraping  of 
chairs  as  thousands  sprang  to  their  feet. 

For  the  second  time  within  the  round  Moran  leaped  for- 
ward to  strike  again.  He  chopped  sharply  down  at  the 
only  exposed  spot,  the  back  of  the  neck.  But  Carpentier, 
still  unsteady  on  his  feet,  adroitly  slipped  under  Moran's 
raised  arm,  and  came  to  his  familiar  crouch  ten  feet  away. 


THE   HONEY   BEE  243 

Then  the  bell  rang.  Moran's  arms  fell  to  his  sides.  And 
the  two  quietly  passed  each  other,  walking  to  their  respect- 
ive corners. 

Instantly  there  was  a  whirl  of  activity  about  the  ring. 
The  stools  were  thrust  in  between  the  ropes.  The  inevi- 
table pails  and  bottles  appeared  beside  them.  The  men 
with  towels  appeared,  fanning  each  contestant  with  full 
sweeps  of  muscular  arms.  One  of  Moran's  handlers  knelt 
before  him,  rested  one  of  the  bare  legs  on  each  of  his  own 
thighs,  and  set  to  work  with  strong  nimble  fingers  manipu- 
lating the  thigh  muscles.  Another  masseur  reached  in 
from  behind  the  post  and  worked  on  the  chest  and  abdom- 
inal muscles.  While,  commanding  all,  Henry  Huybers 
leaned  over  the  ropes  and  poured  a  stream  of  low-voiced 
counsel  into  Moran's  ears  as  he  raised  the  water  bottle  to 
his  lips. 

Hilda  recalled  now  that  throughout  the  round  Huybers 
had  been  crouching  on  the  steps,  calling  out  cabalistic  in- 
structions, his  hair  rumpled,  face  flushed,  the  sleeves  of  his 
dress  shirt  rolled  above  the  elbows,  the  pleated  bosom  wet 
with  perspiration,  and  his  low-cut  white  waistcoat  unbut- 
toned and  swinging  open,  with  his  heavy  watch-chain  dan- 
gling from  it.  She  resolved  to  listen  more  closely  during 
the  rounds  to  follow. 

She  glanced  about  the  house.  From  every  side  came  a 
buzz  of  excited  comment.  Apparently  the  great  champion 
was  not  to  have  so  easy  a  time  of  it — he  had  encountered  a 
man  who  would  make  him  work  every  foot  of  the  way.  Here 
and  there,  volatile  Frenchmen  were  going  over  the  events 
of  the  first  round  with  illustrative  gestures. 

Then  Hilda  turned  toward  the  woman  at  her  side.  At 
that  instant  she  resolved  to  conceal  her  own  wildly  flutter- 
ing emotions.  She  would  let  this  woman,  whose  companion 


244  THE   HONEY   BEE 

for  the  evening  she  must  willy-nilly  be,  see  precisely  noth- 
ing of  her  real  self. 

Accordingly  she  observed — 

"It  looks  rather  good  for  us." 

But  the  fat  woman,  to  Hilda's  surprise,  was  distinctly 
nervous. 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  said  she.  "The  way  they  give  deci- 
sions over  here,  it  don't  matter  who  hits  hardest  or  who's 
strongest  at  the  end.  They're  all  for  points."  Her  voice 
rose  a  little.  "Why,  would  you  believe  it,  they'll  give  that 
round  to  Carpentier." 

"I  don't  see  that,"  said  Hilda. 

"Don't  you  see — it's  all  those  foolish  little  pats  of  his. 
Every  blow's  a  point,  no  matter  how  light  it  is.  Oh,  they 
make  me  sick !  Blink's  got  to  knock  him  cold  to  get  any- 
thing." 

There  was  a  warning  call  from  the  timekeeper.  Seconds 
and  masseurs  scrambled  out  of  the  ring,  handing  down 
pails  and  bottles  as  they  went.  The  referee  hung  his  towel 
on  the  post  and  stepped  forward.  The  gong  clanged;  the 
second  round  had  begun. 

With  the  sound  of  the  gong  the  two  fighters  rushed.  The^ 
met  in  mid-ring  with  the  solid  thud  of  hard  gloves  on 
harder  bodies.  And  standing  there  they  fought;  while  the 
crowd,  stirred  by  the  unexpected  speed  and  spirit  of  the 
contest,  loosed  a  roar. 

Henry  Huybers,  kneeling  on  the  steps,  was  talking  con- 
tinuously. Hilda  could  hear  him  now,  through  all  the  up- 
roar— 

"Eight — Blink.  Get  the  right  over!  Crowd  him — 
crowd  him,  boy !  .  .  .  Underneath — quick,  he's  crouch- 
ing— Underneath !  Harder !  Eight  again !  Quick  now — 
keep  going — at  him,  boy — Get  him — Get  him!  .  .  . 


THE   HONEY  BEE  245 

Now  the  right !— Eight,  I  tell  you !  .  .  .  That's  it— 
that's  it !  Now,  under.  Go  under !  That's  it — you've  got 
him.  Now  the — 0-oh,  one-two!  Quick  now — the  one- 
two!" 

/That  low  but  penetrating  "0-oh!"  from  Huybers  pre- 
ceded by  no  more  than  a  fraction  of  a  second  a  savage 
yell  from  the  entire  great  audience.  For  Moran,  working 
with  a  cool  speed  and  vigor  that  knew  no  opposition,  was 
deliberately  taking  the  champion's  blows  in  order  to  land 
a  series  of  short,  hard  right  swings  to  the  head;  then,  as 
Carpentier  ducked  lower,  he  brought  an  ugly  left  uppercut 
to  the  chin,  and  followed  it  by  a  sudden  cutting  loose  of 
both  hands  in  a  rain  of  blows  to  the  face  and  head. 

"Careful,  careful — you're  taking  big  chances!"  It  was 
the  shrill  voice  of  Mrs.  Huybers  at  Hilda's  side. 

Clearly,  Moran  and  his  manager  had  determined  on  a 
plan  of  campaign  designed  to  catch  the  champion  unawares. 
There  was  no  evidence  here  of  a  decision  to  act  on  the  de- 
fensive until  Carpentier  should  begin  to  tire.  On  the  con- 
trary, Moran  was  mercilessly  at  him. 

And  the  attack,  for  the  moment  at  least,  was  effective. 
Carpentier  was  staggering.  Moran  uppercut  again,  with 
his  left ;  and  the  Frenchman,  in  a  desperate  effort  to  dodge 
away  from  the  right  swing  that  was  sure  to  follow,  slipped 
and  fell  to  his  hands  and  knees. 

Instantly  the  alert  referee  pushed  Moran  away  and  be- 
gan that  slow  count. 

Carpentier  partly  raised  himself,  glanced  toward  his  own 
corner,  as  if  for  instructions,  then  settled  back  on  one  knee 
to  take  full  advantage  of  the  count. 

Moran  waited,  cool,  determined.  His  eyes  were  fixed 
intently  on  the  kneeling  figure.  His  jaws  were  set,  and  the 
\eavy  bunches  of  muscle  stood  out  on  either  side.  He  was 


246  THE   HONEY  BEE 

shining  with  sweat;  and  his  skin  was  red  here  and  there 
where  hard  blows  had  left  their  mark.  Over  his  right 
cheek-hone  was  a  discolored  swelling.  And  as  he  stood 
there,  all  alert,  arms  a  little  forward,  fists  clenched,  ready  to 
strike  with  all  the  strength  that  was  in  his  wonderful  body, 

f|he  did  not  seem  a  human  thing.  He  was  a  primitive  force 
— savage  in  every  fiber,  calculatingly  savage — dominated 
by  the  fierce  intent  to  do  harm  and  only  harm.  He  was 
the  fighting  male,  the  destructive  male. 

"And  this,"  thought  Hilda,  "is  a  business !"  She  felt 
weak,  yet  more  and  more  caught  up  in  the  grip  of  the  ex- 
citement that  was  shaking  the  great  hall.  She  told  herself 
that  she  would  be  ill  after  it  was  over.  Then  she  forgot 
even  this.  She  felt  herself  impelled  to  urge  Moran  on.  He 
must  win — her  Blink  must  win.  Yes,  it  was  primitive. 
She  was  becoming  primitive  enough  herself  now.  That 
man  up  there,  that  man  whose  life  lay  so  strangely  close  to 
hers,  was  a  wild  splendid  thing.  He  was  a  fighter.  That 
was  all  right.  Life  is  a  fight.  Business  is  a  fight.  She 
was  a  fighter  herself — every  minute,  all  the  time.  She  had 
put  men  out  in  the  fierce  conflicts  of  business  competition — 
she  had  tricked  and  outwitted  them,  in  ways  that  hurt 
them  and  that  hurt  their  wives  and  children.  Was  that 
any  better  than  this  ?  She  wondered,  in  a  swift  wild  way, 
while  the  bare  arm  of  the  referee  swung  slowly  up  and 

/down  like  a  semaphore,  beating  off  the  seconds — wondered 
if  this  frank  fighting  were  not  the  better  after  all.  Because 
it  was  franker.  Then  she  wondered  at  herself — studying 
those  nearly  naked,  sweating,  battered  human  bodies  up 
there  in  the  ring — wondered  at  herself  for  thinking  these 
wild  thoughts.  Was  she  simply  bad,  that  these  splendidly 
primitive  fighting  men  should  so  outrageously  excite  her  I 
.  .  .  She  was  sitting  straight  up  on  the  forward  edge  of 


THE   HONEY  BEE  247 

her  chair,  her  hands  tightly  clasped  in  her  lap,  her  eyes 
wide  and  very  bright,  her  cheeks  flaming.  And  more  than 
one  man  was  gazing  straight  across  the  ring,  heedless  of 
the  fighters — gazing  at  her.  But  this  she  did  not  know. 

"Seven!"  called  the  referee,  in  crisp  English.  Then 
"Eight !"  Then,  "Xine !" 

Carpentier  was  up,  and  crouching. 

Instantly  Moran  rushed,  tearing  past  the  referee,  actually 
whirling  that  dignitary  aside  in  the  speed  of  his  onslaught. 

There  was  a  swift  exchange  of  blows. 

Suddenly  Carpentier's  right  shot  forward,  from  a  crouch, 
straight  against  the  stomach  of  the  American.  Hilda  both 
saw  and  heard  the  blow.  Too,  she  saw  the  agonized  expres- 
sion on  Blink's  face  as  he  staggered  back,  just  before  he 
doubled  over,  tried  weakly  to  cover,  caught  gropingly  at  the 
middle  rope,  then  fell  to  the  canvas. 

Again  the  bare  arm  of  the  referee  waved  through  the  air. 

At  "Three,"  Moran  was  struggling  to  his  knees.  At 
'Tour"  he  was  rising.  At  "Five,"  the  gong  clanged,  and 
the  second  round  was  over. 

The  fighters  sank  down  on  the  waiting  stools  and  leaned 
against  the  ropes.  The  seconds,  masseurs  and  managers 
were  at  them  on  the  instant,  frantic  to  make  the  most  of 
every  one  of  the  scant  sixty  seconds  allotted  them  for  their 
work. 

Hilda  found  herself  still  sitting  very  erect,  on  the  for- 
ward edge  of  her  chair.  And  she  knew  that  she  was  red  as 
fire.  Still,  so  were  others.  She  leaned  back,  wondering 
how  long  she  could  stand  the  tension.  Her  heart  was  going 
like  mad  already.  And  but  two  rounds  done.  She  must 
eit  through  eighteen  rounds  more — unless  there  should  be 
a  knockout. 

She  listened  to  the  confusion  of  talk  about  her,  picking 


248  THE   HONEY  BEE 

out,  here  and  there,  a  British  or  American  phrase — "Some- 
thing doing,  soon,  my  boy!  They  can't  keep  that  up. 
Something'll  drop,  I  tell  you."  .  .  .  "Did  you  see  that 
right?"  "How  about  even  money  it  don't  go  five  rounds 
more?"  .  .  . 

Then  she  caught  the  strident  voice  of  Mrs.  Huybers — » 
"Ain't  Henry  got  any  sense  at  all!  Don't  lie  know  you 
can't  rush  Carpenteer  like  that?  And  only  the  second 
round!  He'll  be  spilling  the  beans,  that's  what  he'll  be 
doing — spilling  the  beans !" 

Again  the  gong.  Again  the  pell-mell  scramble  of  seconds 
and  handlers.  Again  the  two  fighting  men  crouching,  face 
to  face,  at  the  center  of  the  ring,  while  the  referee  hovered 
at  one  side. 

But  this  time  there  was  no  rush,  no  swift  hard  impact. 
Each  had  felt  the  metal  of  the  other.  Each  had  been  as 
good  as  saved  by  the  bell.  They  crouched — eyed  each 
other — circled,  but  the  blows  they  exchanged  in  moments 
of  sparring  carried  no  such  sting  as  the  blows  of  the  pre- 
ceding rounds. 

It  was  astounding  to  Hilda  that  Moran  should  exhibit,  to 
her  untrained  eye,  so  little  evidence  that  the  blow  that 
brought  him  down  had  left  any  results  behind  it.  He 
looked  the  same,  excepting  the  fact  that  the  bruise  over 
his  cheek-bone  was  now  more  prominent.  He  appeared 
cool.  If  anything  he  was  breathing  more  easily  than  dur- 
ing the  two  earlier  rounds;  doubtless  his  "second  wind" 
had  come  to  him.  But  he  was  acting  with  greater  caution. 
She  wondered  if  this  was  not  a  bit  of  strategy,  designed 
to  give  Carpentier  the  impression  that  his  blow  had  seri- 
ously weakened  Moran.  That,  she  reflected,  would  not  be 
such  a  bad  plan.  It  might  well  lead  the  champion  to  drop 
Bome  of  his  own  caution  and  open  himself  to  sudden  attack. 


THE   HONEY  BEE  249 

But  Carpentier  had  changed  his  tactics  too.  He  seemed 
content,  for  the  time,  to  feint,  and  dance,  and  "box," 
shooting  in  light  blows  from  unexpected  angles.  Even 
Hilda  could  see  that  he  was  extremely  skilful  at  this  work. 
At  boxing  and  jabbing  he  could  land  two  blows  to  the 
'American's  one.  This,  he  was  now  proceeding  to  do.  And 
the  accumulation  of  points  was  rapid  and  certain.  Only 
once  in  the  third  round  did  he  show  an  inclination  to  fight. 
He  thrust  a  straight  left,  rather  lightly  to  Moran's  chin; 
then  suddenly  swung  his  right  after  it,  and  followed  this 
blow  by  hooking  his  left  to  the  body.  But  the  thud  that 
followed  was  not  from  Carpentier's  fist.  For  was  the  sud- 
den rocking  of  the  head,  wincing  and  falling  back  on  the 
part  of  the  champion  caused  by  any  attack  of  his  own. 
Hilda  could  not  follow  the  blows.  But  she  saw  the  result. 
And,  too,  she  heard  the  yell  of  the  crowd !  and  heard  the 
sudden  scream  of  furious  glee  from  the  fat  woman  at  her 
side. 

"Oh !  Oh !"  cried  Mrs.  Huybers — it  must  be  admitted, 
quite  inelegantly — "Take  that,  will  you,  you  big  frog?" 

"What  was  it?"  Hilda  asked.    "What  happened?" 

"Blink  uppercut  him  with  his  right.  Some  counter,  if 
you  ask  me !  A  pippin !" 

Hilda  moved  a  little  away  from  her.  But  the  chairs 
were  narrow.  And  Mrs.  Huybers  was  fat. 

Moran  did  not  follow  up  his  opening — merely  studied  • 
his  man,  content,  apparently,  to  check  him,  and  make  him 
continue  leading.  So  passed  the  third  round;  and  the 
fourth.  Each  man  had  "felt  out"  the  other  and  found  him 
strong.  Carpentier,  convinced,  in  spite  of  his  one  lucky 
blow  at  the  close  of  the  second  round,  that  it  was  safer  to 
box  Moran  than  to  fight  him,  bent  his  energies  to  the 
accumulation  of  those  points  that  would  certainly  bring 


250  THE   HONEY  BEE 

him  the  decision,  barring  an  actual  knockout  by  his  op 
ponent. 

Moran,  for  his  part,  seemed  content  to  let  a  few  rounds 
drift  to  the  credit  of  the  champion. 

After  the  fourth  round,  however,  Moran  changed  his 
method.  Hilda  had  been  startled,  in  the  first  two  rounds, 
by  the  speed  of  his  rushes;  but  they  were  nothing  to  the 
burst  with  which  he  opened  the  fifth  round. 

Before  the  bell  rang  he  lay  back  limply  in  the  grasp  of 
his  handlers.  When,  at  the  warning  call,  these  turned  to 
leave  the  ring,  he  straightened  up  languidly,  apparently 
giving  his  whole  attention  to  the  eager  words  of  Henry 
Huybers  at  his  ear. 

Then  the  gong  sounded — and  Moran  sprang.  He  was  on 
the  champion  and  fighting,  before  the  seconds  could  with- 
draw the  pails  and  stools  from  the  corners,  before  the  ref- 
eree had  finished  hanging  his  towel  on  the  post. 

Carpentier,  not  yet  in  position,  tried  to  duck  under  his 
arm ;  but  Moran  uppercut  him  in  the  mouth,  and  followed 
this  blow  with  a  savage  chop  to  the  neck. 

Carpentier,  bending  forward  and  covering,  staggered 
away. 

Moran  was  after  and  on  him  with  the  instant  ferocity 
of  a  Bengal  tiger,  hitting  with  right  and  left. 

Carpentier  dodged,  and  ran.  He  swung,  all  erect,  back 
against  the  ropes,  and  caught  a  terrific  short  right  in  the 
mouth.  Then,  however,  as  he  reeled  away,  Moran  loosed 
a  right  swing  that  went  wild.  This  gave  the  Frenchman 
his  opportunity  to  slip  in  close  and  clinch;  which  he 
promptly  did. 

In  vain  Moran  tried  to  elbow  him  off  and  work  at  his 
body.  Carpentier  clung  tight.  Moran  hooked  twice  to  the 
kidney,  but  was  stopped  by  the  referee,  who  was  struggling, 


THE   HONEY  BEE  251 

at  first  without  success,  to  separate  the  men.  Carpentier 
held  close,  his  chin  resting  on  Moran's  shoulder,  breathing 
deeply  and  waiting  for  the  recovery  that  was  only  a  matter 
of  time. 

Finally  the  referee  succeeded  in  wrenching  the  French- 
man away;  and,  in  doing  so,  passed  between  the  men,  evi- 
dently with  the  idea  of  holding  Moran  off  until  Carpentier 
could  get  his  footing. 

Again  the  American  rushed  in.  But  Carpentier  had  par- 
tially recovered,  and  managed  to  weather  the  storm  of 
blows — managed  even,  after  a  brief  moment  of  purely  de- 
fensive tactics,  to  begin  returning  them. 

That  was  the  amazing  thing  about  these  men — their  ca- 
pacity for  taking  punishment,  their  immense  recuperative 
power. 

Moran  relaxed  somewhat.  It  was  plain  enough  that  no 
man  could  hold  for  long  his  pace  of  the  last  half  minute. 
He  had  planned  to  trick  the  Frenchman,  and,  by  catching 
him  off  his  guard,  score  a  sudden  knockout.  The  trick  had 
been  partly  successful.  The  Frenchman  would  be  the 
weaker  in  later  rounds  for  the  beating  he  had  received. 
But  the  knockout  blow  had  not  landed.  It  was  time  now 
for  something  else. 

Accordingly  he  fell  again  to  sparring  and  boxing.  And 
the  round  was  nearly  over  before  the  Frenchman  exhibited 
even  a  momentary  flash  of  his  former  speed  and  skill. 

After  this,  for  four  rounds,  until  the  middle  of  the  ninth, 
the  fight  was  less  eventful.  Moran  was  perhaps  content 
that  he  had  laid  a  strong  foundation  for  the  task  he  must 
accomplish  during  the  latter  part  of  the  fight.  Certainly 
neither  was  so  fast  now.  There  were  moments  of  hard 
fighting,  of  course,  but  even  Hilda  could  see  that  they 
lacked  the  ferocity  of  the  earlier  encounters.  She  even 


253  THE   HONEY   BEE 

found  herself  settling  back  and  watching  the  contest  with 
a  cool  eye.  At  first  it  had  seemed  as  if  something  vaguely 
dreadful  might  happen  at  any  moment.  Now  it  appeared 
that  nothing  very  dreadful  was  imminent.  Mindful  of  the 
long  route  ahead  of  them,  the  two  men  protected  themselves 
with  greater  care. 

And  from  round  to  round  they  slowed  perceptibly.  Their 
work  was  more  methodical,  more  like  the  business  Blink 
had  told  her  that  fighting  was.  Each  was  battering  at  the 
other's  body.  Little  by  little  they  were  wearing  each  other 
down.  Now  and  then  one  or  the  other  would  take  advan- 
tage of  some  opening  and-  shoot  a  blow  at  the  jaw.  But 
neither  fell.  .  .  .  And  Hilda  could  see  now  that  they 
were  very  workmanlike,  each  in  his  own  way.  Moran  still 
relied  on  the  force  of  his  blows;  Carpentier  on  the  speed 
and  number  of  his.  The  Frenchman  was  the  lighter  on 
his  feet.  His  dodging  was,  at  times,  really  extraordinary. 
Once,  when  Moran  caught  him  out  of  position,  his  face 
unguarded,  he  dodged  three  successive  blows,  well-aimed 
blows,  by  merely  jerking  his  head  from  side  to  side.  .  .  . 
Carpentier  could  deliver  his  blows  from  any  position.  He 
had  a  remarkable  knack  for  shooting  forward  just  when 
he  appeared  to  be  in  full  retreat.  Once  or  twice  he  gave 
Moran  some  trouble  by  this  device,  quite  surprising  him. 

But  in  spite  of  occasional  interesting  moments,  these 
rounds  were  rather  monotonous.  It  was  boxing  and  mill- 
ing, boxing  and  milling,  grinding  each  other  down. 

In  the  ninth,  however,  Carpentier,  fearful  perhaps  that 
this  long-continued  point  making  might  work  out  to  his 
disadvantage,  changed  his  tactics  and  began  working  in  to 
fight  at  close  quarters.  He  would  rush  in  so  close  and  so 
hard  that  his  body  followed  his  blows.  He  seemed  to  strike 


THE   HONEY  BEE  253 

•with  elbows  and  shoulders  as  well  as  fists;  and  more  than 
once  his  head  struck  Moran's  chin  with  force. 

The  American  met  these  attacks  with  straight  lefts,  to- 
gether with  an  occasional  uppercut.  He  appeared  to  be 
holding  his  own  reasonably  well.  Indeed,  as  Mrs.  Huy- 
bers  pointed  out,  he  seemed  to  keep  himself  well  in  hand, 
permitting  the  Frenchman  to  do  most  of  the  work.  Though 
from  the  occasional  change  of  expression  on  Moran's  face, 
and  his  sudden  counter  attacks,  it  was  evident  that  Car- 
pentier  was  landing  many  effective  body  blows  at  close 
quarters. 

The  tenth  round  was  even  sharper  than  the  ninth.  The 
men  were  fighting  hard  now.  There  could  be  no  doubt 
about  that.  And  Moran  was  shifting  his  attack  from  the 
body  to  the  head.  It  was  dreadful,  to  Hilda,  the  ruthless- 
ness  with  which  he  battered  that  attractive  face.  Carpen- 
tier's  right  eye  was  nearly  closed  now.  And  the  next  few 
blows  were  aimed  at  the  left  eye.  Unmistakably  Moran  was 
working  to  cripple  temporarily  the  Frenchman's  vision. 
He  was  so  intent  on  this  process,  indeed,  that  he  took  many 
body  blows  that  he  might  have  blocked  in  order  to  land 
on  the  face. 

"He's  taking  chances — he  sure  is  taking  chances,"  mused 
Mrs.  Huybers  aloud.  "Or  else  he's  sure  the  Frog's  cork  is 
pulled.  You  better  go  easy,  Blink.  He  ain't  licked  yet, 
that  feller !" 

One  of  these  body  blows,  sure  enough,  landed  with  a 
force  that  shook  Moran's  strong  frame.  But  he  drove  his 
next  blow  home  with  no  apparent  loss  of  power,  and  when 
his  glove  came  away  from  that  other  e}re  it  left  a  raw  stain 
behind  it  that  puffed  rapidly  into  a  livid  swelling. 

So  ended  the  tenth  round.    Hilda's  shoulders  moved  in 


THE   HONEY  BEE 

an  involuntary  little  shudder  as  she  sank  back  in  her  chair. 
She  was  enduring  this  spectacle.  But  she  wished  it  was 
over.  .  .  .  Ten  rounds  more — unless  there  should  be  a 
knockout ! 

Surely  she  was  dreaming !  Surely  this  was  not  the  brisk 
matter-of-fact  Hilda  "Wilson  sitting  here! 

She  looked  up  again.  They  were  working  on  the  French- 
man's eyes  with  cloths  and  a  sponge.  She  turned  away. 
Moran  was  limp  in  his  chair,  with  four  men  manipulating 
his  muscles  and  drenching  him  with  water.  She  recalled 
that  the  body  masseur  invariably  met  him,  as  he  returned 
to  his  corner  after  a  round,  with  a  shock  of  ice-water, 
thrown  into  his  face  from  a  sponge. 

Again  that  gong! 

Hilda  wished  some  one  would  wrench  it  from  its  post 
and  throw  it  out  the  window.  She  knew  she  would  be  hear- 
ing that  gong  in  her  sleep  for  twenty  years  to  come.  It 
seemed  the  clanging  brutal  knell  of  all  her  girlish  quality 
— all  her  womanliness — all  her  better  feelings.  She  had 
let  it  into  her  life  for  good,  that  gong  and  all  the  ugly, 
gambling,  bruising,  distressingly  physical  world  of  which 
it  was  the  symbol. 

This  time  Moran  started  the  fighting.  He  shot  left 
and  right  to  those  livid  eyes. 

Hilda  could  have  covered  her  own  eyes  with  her  hands. 
She  could  have  even  screamed  out,  calling  on  Blink  to 
let  those  eyes  alone.  But  she  only  sat  very  still;  not 
flushed  now,  but  pale;  a  beautiful  woman  in  a  gown 
from  Callot's,  about  her  shoulders  an  opera  wrap  of  old 
rose  lined  and  fringed  with  snowy  fur — a  pale  beautiful 
woman,  looking  quietly  at  a  fight. 

Carpentier  fought  back.  But  his  direction  was  not  so 
good;  several  of  his  blows  missed  altogether. 


THE   HOltfEY   BEE  255 

Moran  rushed  him  again,  with  almost  the  speed  and 
ferocity  of  the  first  and  second  rounds.  He  shot  left  and 
right  to  the  head.  He  uppercut  to  the  stomach,  taking 
heavy /^  ws  almost  casually  as  he  closed  in.  Then,  just 
beforcu1Carpentier,  groping  for  him,  could  clinch,  he 
brought  his  right  hand  up  and  over,  like  lightning,  to 
the  side  of  his  opponent's  jaw. 

It  was  the  blow  of  the  evening.  They  were  near  the 
ropes  at  the  moment,  and  Carpentier  shot  through  them, 
clean  out  of  the  ring,  and  fell  sprawling  on  the  report- 
ers' table  beside  it,  even  on  the  reporters  themselves. 

The  audience  was  up  like  a  tidal  wave.  Hilda  put 
her  hands  over  her  ears,  for  the  sudden  noise  hurt  them. 

The  bruised  sweaty  man  was  struggling  there  on  the 
ledge  that  served  for  a  table.  Many  hands  were  helping 
him  to  rise. 

Moran  had  drawn  back  and  whirled  around,  walking 
to  the  farther  side  of  the  ring.  Every  one  was  watch- 
ing the  efforts  of  the  reporters,  the  seconds,  and  the 
referee  to  get  the  champion  back  through  the  ropes—* 
every  one  but  Hilda.  After  the  first  thrilling  instant, 
she  watched  Moran.  She  saw  him  turn  slowly  around, 
there  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  ring.  He  was  holding 
his  right  hand  against  his  body,  pressing  it  there  with 
his  left.  His  lips  were  compressed,  his  jaws  set,  his  eyes 
suddenly  wild.  The  bunches  of  muscle  at  the  sides  of 
his  face  stood  out  sharply  from  blocked-in  shadows. 

Hilda  suddenly  remembered  what  he  had  said  one  eve- 
ning about  the  danger  of  a  fighter  hurting  his  hands. 
Perhaps  he  had  injured  his.  She  studied  him  anxiously, 
after  they  had  got  the  champion  back  into  the  ring.  It 
was  reassuring  to  see  that  the  hurt  look  had  left  his  eyes. 
And  he  fell  naturally  into  his  fighting  crouch. 


256  THE   HONEY  BEE 

She  waited  then  to  see  if  he  would  use  his  right  hand. 
The  Frenchman  seemed  hardly  able  to  keep  his  feet.  The 
fickle  crowd,  still  on  its  feet,  was  clamoring  and  screaming 
for  a  knockout.  But  Moran,  with  the  world  waiti  ^-.^here 
at  his  feet,  merely  sparred  and  boxed  a  little,  mostly  with 
his  left,  while  Henry  Huybers  shouted  at  him  in  frantic 
desperation  of  spirit  to  "Slip  it  over  now,  Blink !  Let  him 
have  it,  boy !" 

Mrs.  Huybers,  red  and  breathless,  with  staring  eyes,  sud- 
denly plunged  forward,  shouting  in  the  general  direction 
of  her  lord  and  super-parasite — "Send  him  in,  Henry.  Let 
him  have  the  haymaker  I" 

Huybers,  without  turning  his  head,  angrily  waved  her 
away.  And  Hilda  caught  her  arm  and  drew  her  back  to 
her  chair. 

The  haymaker  was  not  forthcoming.  Moran  merely 
feinted  and  boxed.  Slowly  the  champion  recovered;  and, 
all  battered  though  he  was,  at  the  bell  he  was  working 
nearly  as  briskly  as  ever,  now  dancing  forward  and  feint- 
ing with  his  shoulders  and  head,  now  dancing  away  only 
to  dart  back  and  shoot  in  light  jabs  to  head  and  body, 
thereby  adding  materially  to  his  already  large  collection  of 
points.  From  somewhere  back  in  the  crowd  came  the  dis- 
tinct sound  of  hisses  and  boos. 

After  the  round  there  was  a  curious  buzz  of  talk  through- 
out the  hall — of  rather  quiet  talk.  All  were  discussing  the 
odd  turn  the  fight  had  taken.  They  did  not  know  what  to 
make  of  it.  Moran  had  had  the  fight  in  his  hands;  but 
for  some  reason  he  had  weakened  and  let  the  Frenchman 
stay.  Hilda  caught  bits  of  one  argument  in  which  an  Eng- 
lishman was  overwhelming  an  ardent  fellow  countryman 
of  her  own  by  shouting  out  that  Moran  was  yellow — just 
plain  yellow,  and  that  was  all  there  was  to  it. 


THE   HOXEY   BEE  257, 

Others  were  hinting  at  crooked  work.  The  fight  had 
been  fixed.  There  had  been  an  advance  agreement  to  the 
effect  that  Carpentier  should  receive  the  decision,  in  con- 
sideratioc  of  an  extra  payment  to  Moran.  One  Englishman 
knew  this.  A  friend  of  his  had  seen  the  documents. 

Hilda  noted  that  Moran,  once  in  his  corner,  let  his  head 
drop  limply  back  and  closed  his  eyes.  He  looked  very  bad, 
she  thought — exhausted,  perhaps  in  pain. 

She  saw  Henry  feel  his  right  hand  and  ask  excited  ques- 
tions. Then  she  saw  Blink  jerk  the  hand  away,  shake  his 
head  wearily  and  grope  for  the  water  bottle  with  his  left 
hand. 

Then  the  twelfth  round  came;  and  the  thirteenth — and 
on,  straight  along  to  the  twentieth  and  the  final  bell.  The 
:  fight  was  curiously  monotonous  from  this  point  to  the 
end.  There  was  no  more  leading  from  Moran;  he  merely 
defended  himself,  and  scored  such  points  as  he  could  with 
his  left. 

Carpentier  grew  steadily  stronger.  In  the  nineteenth 
and  twentieth  he  was  so  vigorous  in  his  attack  that  Moran 
frequently  resorted  to  clinching.  He  was  holding  on  when 
the  last  bell  rang;  and  turned  away  to  his  corner  with  an 
expression  of  relief. 

There  was  a  great  bustle  of  excitement  about  the  ring. 

The  referee  drew  Carpentier  back  to  the  middle  and  held 
up  his  right  arm,  turning  him  slowly  around  so  that  all 
inight  acclaim  the  victor. 

Moran  came  forward  to  congratulate  him,  but  extended 
his  left  hand  instead  of  his  right.  For  a  moment  the  two 
fighters  conversed.  The  referee  joined  them.  Then  Henry 
Huybers  rushed  up  and  very  officiously,  talking  all  the 
time,  set  about  taking  off  Moran's  right  glove. 

Hilda  saw  Moran's  face  actually  whiten  as  Henry  pulled 


258  THE   HONEY  BEE 

off  the  soggy  glove  and  unwound  the  bandage.  Then  the 
three  men  examined  the  hand  closely.  And  then  Carpen- 
tier,  with  a  very  friendly  manner,  slipped  his  arm  through 
Moran's  and  led  him  to  his  corner. 

The  crowd  seemed  to  understand.  Several  hundred  had 
pressed  forward  to  the  ring;  there  were  even  a  few  faint 
cheers. 

"No  good  going  out  yet,"  observed  Mrs.  Huybers,  after 
commenting  volubly  on  the  outcome  of  the  fight.  "We  got 
to  wait  for  'em/' 

So  she  and  Hilda  sat  there  while  the  fighters  left  the 
arena  for  their  dressing-rooms  and  the  crowd  slowly  melted 
away.  The  sporting  gentlemen  swarmed  about  them,  as 
before  the  fight.  Several  of  these  now  endeavored  to  make 
themselves  agreeable  to  Hilda;  but  she  gave  them  little 
more  than  cool  civility.  One  claimed  to  have  precise  news 
from  the  front.  Moran,  he  said,  had  sprained  his  wrist  as 
a  result  of  that  terrific  blow  in  the  eleventh  round.  All 
the  men  seemed  to  agree  that  Blink,  despite  his  technical 
defeat,  had  won  a  new  position  through  his  work  of  the 
evening.  He  had  shown  himself  Carpentier's  master  until 
his  fatal  right  was  injured ;  and  after  that  he  had  kept  his 
feet,  alert  and  strong,  to  the  very  end. 

"This'll  mean  some  big  matches  for  Blink,"  observed  the 
very  agreeable  card  player. 

"But,"  observed  Hilda,  "surely  this  injury  will  interfere 
with  that?" 

The  card  player  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "In  a  few 
months  he  will  be  all  right.  It  is  nothing." 

Hilda  was  glad  when  the  party  finally  moved  toward  the 
door.  She  felt  rather  weak.  And  she  was  conscious  of  a 
distinctly  unhealthy  interest  in  herself  on  the  part  of  these 


THE   HONEY  BEE  259 

uniformly  shrewd  and  suave  men.  There  could  not  be  the 
slightest  doubt  as  to  what  was  in  their  minds  regarding 
her.  It  was  a  situation  from  which  she  would  be  glad  to 
escape.  Certainly  this  little  world  was  one  to  which  her 
nature  was  not  adapted. 

It  would  be  a  relief  to  be  with  Blink  again.  She  had 
felt  something  near  terror  of  him  before  he  was  injured, 
when  he  was  fighting  with  cool  merciless  ferocity.  But 
Blink  hurt  was  another  person.  The  mothering  instinct, 
that  had  been  so  deeply  and  strangely  stirred  in  her  of  late, 
was  welling  up  now,  full  and  strong. 

Still,  she  was  confused.  It  seemed  to  her  now  that  she 
had  gone  too  far  with  him  in  the  taxi  coming  out  here. 
She  should  not  have  let  her  emotions  overrun  her  in  that 
way.  Certainly  it  was  wrong  to  give  Blink  the  faintest 
right  to  expect  .  .  .  for  there  were  problems,  a  horrid 
little  tangle  of  them.  .  .  .  and  a  woman's  life  is  not  to 
be  turned  lightly  aside ;  not  in  the  case  of  a  grown  woman 
like  herself.  A  woman's  life  is  a  delicate  and  complex 
thing,  making  always  its  own  insistent  demands. 

As  she  waited,  standing  in  the  shadows  beside  the  outer 
gate,  with  an  effort  keeping  up  with  the  talk  of  a  man  at 
each  elbow,  her  spirits  sank.  She  would  have  given  any- 
thing for  a  few  hours  by  herself.  That  mothering  instinct 
was  still  strong  in  her,  as  was  her  genuine  fondness  for  the 
•Blink  she  had  known.  But  she  still  felt  the  shock  of  that 
nrst  view  of  the  merciless  fighting  savage  in  the  ring.  And 
she  was  very  tired. 

He  came  then,  with  the  important  little  Henry  Huybers 
beside  him,  still  talking  excitedly,  still  exhibiting  intricate 
structures  of  gold  in  his  cavernous  mouth.  .  .  .  Blink 
appeared  refreshingly  like  himself — his  face  a  bit  flushed, 


£60  THE   HONEY  BEE 

i 

a  discernible  bruise  over  his  cheek-bone,  his  right  hand 
heavily  bandaged,  but  again  in  his  immaculate  evening 
costume. 

He  was  silent,  moody.  The  eager  questions  of  the  sport- 
ing gentlemen  he  met  with  monosyllables,  with  the  air  of 
one  who  brushes  small  creatures  away.  A  very  few  mo- 
ments, and  he  had  said  good  night  and  guided  Hilda  to 
the  curb,  raising  his  bandaged  right  hand  toward  the  cab 
rank  in  mid-avenue. 

Hilda  glanced  back,  just  before  she  stepped  into  the  taxi. 
Then  she  felt  the  color  come  rushing  to  her  cheeks.  They 
were  all  standing  motionless — Henry,  Mrs.  Huybers  and 
the  sporting  persons — watching  the  great  Blink  Moran  lead 
her  away.  It  was  close  to  midnight ;  and  it  was  Paris  ! 

A  trace  of  the  recklessness  she  had  felt  in  the  early  eve- 
ning rose  within  her,  as  she  nodded  a  final  good  night  and, 
with  compressed  lips,  entered  the  car.  Moran  gave  the 
address — their  address,  hers  and  his — to  the  chauffeur  and 
stepped  in  after  her,  dropping  heavily  at  her  right  hand. 

"Blink,"  she  cried  softly,  moved  to  talk  a  great  deal,  and 
rapidly,  "what  happened  ?  You  are  hurt,  I  know." 

He  sat  for  a  moment  in  moody  silence,  then  reached  out, 
found  a  slim  gloved  hand,  and  crushed  it  in  his  left  hand. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  didn't  do  it." 

"Oh,  but,  Blink,  you  were  hurt !" 

"It's  all  in  the  game,  Hilda.  One  way  or  the  other,  I 
didn't  make  good.  The  hand  is  broken." 

Hilda's  emotions  were  distressingly  confused.  She  could 
not  think  clearly.  He  was  not  a  savage  now ;  but  her  Blink, 
a  fallen  warrior,  very  human.  He  was  hurting  her  hand; 
but  she  could  not  decide  to  withdraw  it.  Besides,  she  had 
given  him  the  right  .  .  .  or  had  she? 


THE   HONEY  BEE  861 

Then,  without  warning,  out  of  her  muddled  feelings,  rose 
a  picture — rose  swift  and  clear — a  picture  of  a  tall,  rather 
gaunt  man,  slightly  bent  but  strong,  with  sad  deepset  eyes 
in  a  gray  face — standing  in  the  shadows  of  a  station  plat- 
form ;  a  man  who  gripped  the  handle  of  his  suit-case  in  one 
hand,  his  umbrella  in  the  other,  and  looked  after  her  as 
the  train  rolled  away.  Again  it  occurred  to  her  that  she 
had  never  so  much  as  known  the  name  of  that  station  in 
Pennsylvania  where  she  had  last  seen  Harris  Doreyn. 

She  could  have  cried  out.  Must  she  renounce  the  very 
thought  of  love  in  order  to  forget  that  man?  Was  this 
lost  love  the  unfading  shadow  of  her  life?  Did  all  the 
roads  of  feeling  lead  to  him  in  her  heart  ? 

She  wondered — her  mind  still  swift  and  clear — what  he 
would  think  of  her  now.  He  was  not  far  away,  only  a  few 
hours  by  train  and  channel  boat  and  train  again.  Perhaps 
he  had  actually  come  to  Paris — who  could  say  ? 

In  desperation,  in  sheer  longing  for  human  companion- 
ship, she  returned  the  pressure  of  Blink's  hand. 

For  a  long  moment  they  sat  thus.  The  taxi  was  circling 
the  great,  shadowy  Arc  de  Triomphe  and  skimming  down 
the  Champs  Elysees. 

Blink's  hand  trembled.  He  jerked  it  away.  Before  she 
fully  realized  what  was  taking  place,  her  head  was  nestled 
in  the  hollow  of  his  arm,  his  bandaged  broken  hand  was 
forcing  up  her  chin. 

She  struggled,  and  tried  to  speak.  He  seemed  not  even 
to  know  that  she  was  resisting  him. 

His  lips  met  hers,  pressed  upon  them. 

She  struggled  and  fought,  blindly.  She  could  not  get 
her  breath.  She  was  suddenly  crying.  She  caught  at  the 
bandaged  hand,  tore  it  away ;  then  cowered  low  in  the  cor- 


262  THE   HONEY  BEE 

ner  of  the  seat,  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  sobbed 
aloud. 

She  made  an  effort  to  control  herself.  She  did  not  know 
what  was  the  matter  with  her.  She  was  all  to  pieces. 

She  sat  up. 

He  was  leaning  back,  looking  down  and  nursing  his  ban- 
daged hand. 

She  touched  his  arm.  "Oh,  Blink/'  she  managed  to  say, 
"I  have  hurt  you.  I  didn't  mean — I  didn't  know  what  I 
was  doing." 

He  made  no  reply,  nor  did  he  raise  his  eyes. 

The  silence  deepened.  She  stared  out  the  window,  grip- 
ping the  sill  tightly  with  both  hands.  Finally  she  leaned 
back  and  let  her  hands  fall  limp  in  her  lap. 

"I  don't  blame  you  for  being  angry  with  me,  Blink,"  her 
voice  said.  "I  haven't  been  fair  with  you  ...  I  didn't 
mean  to  be  unfair.  I  didn't  know.  But" — she  could  not 
look  at  him,  nor  could  she  speak  steadily — "but  I'm  afraid. 
,  .  .  I'm  afraid  I  do  know  now,  Blink." 

Still  he  was  silent. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  it.  Perhaps  I  can  explain, 
It  would  help  if  I  could  even  explain  to  myself.  .  .  . 
"We're  nearly  home,  Blink.  I  don't  want  you  to  go.  Not 
yet.  Come  up  with  me,  and  let  me  try  to  talk.  You  see — 
I  don't  want  you  to  go— leaving  it  like  this." 


XIX 

IN  WHICH  HILDA  AND  BLINK  CONCLUDE  THAT  IT  HAS  BEEN 
A  GOOD  DEAL  OF  AN  EVENING,  TAKING  IT  BY  AND  LARGE 

SO  THEY  mounted  the  stairway  together.     Hilda  un- 
locked her  door.    He  followed  her  in,  still  silent,  on 
tiptoe. 

The  electric  light  was  dim,  still  wrapped  in  that  colored 
tissue-paper  that  Hilda  had  placed  there  so  many  weeks 
ago  .  .  .  weeks  or  years.  Adele's  door  was  closed. 
This  was  odd. 

Blink  was  having  difficulty  in  getting  his  overcoat  off. 
Hilda  lent  a  hand,  and  threw  the  coat  on  the  bed. 

"Sit  down,  Blink,"  she  said.  And  herself  dropped 
wearily  into  a  chair.  "Adele  has  evidently  gone  to  bed." 

She  rubbed  her  cheeks  with  her  two  hands;  then  tried, 
without  great  success,  to  smile.  "I'm  awfully  tired,  Blink," 
she  said. 

He  looked  at  her  now. 

"Aren't  you  too  tired  to  talk,  Hilda?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "No — I've  got  to  talk.  Now — be- 
fore I  even  try  to  sleep.  You  see,  Blink,  more  is  happen- 
ing to  me  than  you  could  possibly  know.  I'm  at  the  cross- 
roads. It  looks  like  the  climax  of  things  for  me.  I  haven't 
realized  it  before — not  fully.  I  don't  believe  it  really  got 
to  me  until — well,  in  the  cab  there,  when — when  you 
kissed  me." 

263 


264  THE   HONEY   BEE 

"I  oughtn't  to  have  done  that.    But  you  see — " 

She  spread  out  her  hands,  in  a  gesture  that  seemed  to 
have  despair  in  it.  "Don't  explain,  Blink.  Please !  You 
were  all  right.  I'm  not  going  to  play  the  woman  about 
that.  The  thing  I  want  to  say  is  that  I  haven't  meant  to 
be  unfair.  I  was  drifting.  I  was  all  at  sea.  I've  grown 
very  fond  of  you.  Yes,  I  have,  Blink!  You  know  that 
well  enough." 

He  inclined  his  head  in  sober  assent  to  this. 

She  leaned  forward  and  let  her  chin  fall  into  the  palm 
of  her  hand.  He  studied  her  gloomily.  She  seemed  to 
him  the  most  beautiful  creature  he  had  ever  seen.  And 
she  was  so  downright  honest — amazing  in  a  woman.  A 
man  like  Blink  expects  charm  from  beautiful  women,  but 
not  honesty,  never  honesty.  He  saw  her  then,  and  all  at 
once,  as  a  remote  inaccessible  creature. 

"I  oughtn't  to  have  done  it,"  he  repeated. 

She  ignored  the  remark  this  time.  "You  see,  Blink,  it 
all  appears  to  come  down  to  this — I  can't  marry  you." 

He  lowered  his  eyes,  and  was  silent. 

"I  simply  can't,  Blink.  It  is  out  of  the  question.  Eight 
at  this  minute  I  almost  wish  I  could.  But  I  can't." 

"It's  the  fight  did  that,"  he  said. 

"Perhaps  that  was  part  of  it.  Oh,  Blink,  why,  why  did 
you  keep  at  his  eyes  that  way !" 

"That  was  legitimate,  Hilda.  I  saw  an  advantage  there, 
and  took  it." 

Hilda  suppressed  a  physical  impulse  to  shudder  as  she 
had  shuddered  at  the  ringside;  then  pressed  on.  "But  ncr, 
the  fight  isn't  all.  Not  by  any  means.  Unless  in  the  sense 
that  it  stirred  me  to  the  point  where  I've  simply  had  to 
stop  short  and  think.  No  it's  more — a  lot  more.  .  .  . 
Blink,  I  can't  marry  at  all.  There  has  never  been  but  one 


THE   HONEY   BEE  265 

man  I  could  really  have  married.  I  had  to  run  away  from 
him  to  save  myself.  .  .  .  I'm  not  a  cold  thing,  Blink. 
I  have  feelings.  I'm  human.  You  are  attractive  to  me — 
more  attractive  than  you  could  possibly  know.  But  being 
with  you  in  this  intimate  way  just  makes  me  keep  think- 
ing more  and  more  about  love — not  marriage,  Blink,  but 
love.  .  .  .  Oh,  what  am  I  talking  about?  This  is  all 
beside  the  question.  It  just  comes  down  to  the  fact  that  I 
am  very,  very  fond  of  you,  Blink,  but  I  am  perfectly  sure 
that  I  couldn't  marry  you. 

"That's  a  practical  matter,  Blink.  We're  not  enough 
alike.  We  haven't  enough  in  common.  Surely  you  can 
see  that.  Our  worlds  lie  a  million  miles  apart.  Now  you, 
Blink,  you  ought  to  marry — but  not  an  independent  busi- 
ness woman  like  me,  a  woman  with  fixed  habits  and  trained 
Abilities.  I  couldn't  give  everything  up  and  settle  down 
to  keep  house  for  a  man.  I'd  rust.  I'd  die.  Perhaps,  if 
it  was  a  very  big  house  that  needed  a  lot  of  managing 
and  a  social  position  that  called  for  tact  and  energy  and 
more  managing — perhaps  I  could  do  that.  But  even  that 
way,  I  have  my  doubts.  You  see,  I've  worked  too  long.  I 
have  built  up  too  much.  In  a  way  I'm  too  much  of  a  per- 
son, Blink." 

Then  her  tone  softened.  Tears  came  to  her  eyes  which! 
he  did  not  see,  but  he  heard  something  akin  to  them  in 
ner  voice. 

"Here  is  the  thing  that  disturbs  me  so  ...  I've 
spoken  of  the  one  man  I  love.  Blink,  that  was  years  ago. 
Time  and  again  I  thought  that  affair  all  outgrown  and  for- 
gotten. The  queer  thing  is  that  it  wasn't  forgotten  at  all. 
It  wasn't  even  weaker  in  my  life.  Those  times,  my  relief 
from  the  suffering  it  brought  me,  meant  nothing  more  than 
that  I  was  busy,  and  interested  in  other  things,  and  was 


266  THE   HONEY   BEE 

getting  along  pretty  well  without  any  love  in  my  life.  I 
thought  my  work  would  be  everything  to  me.  But  it  isn't. 
I  was  wrong  .  .  .  All  this  experience  lately — going 
stale  on  my  job  and  having  to  give  it  up — letting  you  and 
the  baby  into  my  life — it  has  simply  started  me  to  think- 
ing about  love  again  and — and  then  it  all  comes  back — all 
the  old  torment  that  used  to  hurt  so,  that  I  fought  so  hard 
to  live  down.  Don't  you  see,  Blink,  I  can't  think  about  love 
without  thinking  about  Harris  Doreyn." 

Blink  raised  his  eyes.    "Oh,"  he  asked— "of  Chicago?" 

She  nodded.  Her  eyes  were  swimming  with  tears.  She 
was  biting  her  lip. 

"You've  spoken  of  him  before,  once  or  twice.  I  remem- 
ber now.  I  know  who  he  is,  of  course.  He's  a  big  man." 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "he  is  a  big  man." 

"Why  did  you  have  to  run  away  from  him,  Hilda  ?  Was 
he  married?" 

"Yes,  he  was — is — married.  So  you  see,  Blink,  I  can't 
even  think  about  it.  Marriage — love — I  must  shut  all 
thought  of  them  out  of  my  life.  Maybe  you  won't  quite 
understand  that,  Blink.  You  don't  know  what  these  things 
mean  to  us  women.  We  suffer  so.  We  have  to  shut  our 
minds  tight  against  things  that  hurt  us,  or  we  can't  live. 
We  have  to  ...  there's  just  one  thing  for  me  now — if 
I  can  only  keep  the  baby !  There  will  be  pain  in  that  a? 
well  as  a  sort  of  happiness ;  but  it  is  so  much  better  than 
an  empty  life." 

Then  she  fell  silent.  After  a  moment  she  went  over  to 
the  basket  and  sat  where  she  could  watch  the  coverlet  move 
gently  with  the  baby's  breathing. 

She  looked  up,  and  said,  very  gently,  "Oh,  Blink,  will 
you  help  me  keep  her  ?" 

"I'll  do  what  I  can,  Hilda,"  he  replied. 


THE   HONEY   BEE  267 

"You  see,  it's  one  thing  that  really  grips  me.  I've  just 
got  to  have  it.  A  woman  needs  love,  Blink,  and — mother- 
hood. She  needs  them.  Oh,  you  men  don't  know  how  a 
woman — a  woman  like  me — feels  about  children.  It  just 
hurts — hurts !  I've  been  cheated.  And  now  it  is  too  late. 
I've  made  my  life  into  something  else  now — it  is  too  late. 
I'm  a  worker  bee,  Blink.  I've  got  to  go  on  being  a  worker 
bee,  until  I  die.  But  oh,  if  only — just  in  this  half  sort  of 
way — well,  it  would  be  the  next  best  thing.  I've  just  got 
to  have  it.  I  don't  dare  think  what  would  become  of  me  if 
baby  should  be  taken  away  now.  Maybe  I'd  go  to  pieces, 
just  as  Stanley  Aitcheson  told  the  people  at  the  store.  Like 
those  Americans  in  Paris  we  talked  about  the  first  day  I 
met  you,  Blink,  maybe  I  would  'blow  up.'  .  .  .  Say 
you'll  help  me  out  in  this,  Blink." 

"I'll  do  what  I  can,"  he  said  again. 

He  rose,  and  moved  lightly  to  the  window.  On  his  way 
he  glanced  at  something  on  the  bureau.  For  a  moment  he 
stood  looking  down  into  the  dim  silent  street.  Then,  with 
knit  brows,  he  turned  back  to  the  bureau,  and  picked  up  a 
folded  paper. 

"Did  you  see  this,  Hilda?" 

She  glanced  up  slowly,  shaking  her  head. 

"It's  Adele's  writing." 

He  handed  it  to  her;  then,  after  a  moment's  thought, 
went  to  Adele's  door,  tapped  on  it,  opened  it  and  looked 
Jn.  Then  he  reached  in  and  switched  on  the  light. 

"Hilda,"  he  said— "she's  gone." 

"Gone?" 

"Yes.    Her  things  aren't  here." 

Hilda  followed  him  into  the  room.  Together  they  looked 
in  the  wardrobe,  in  bureau  drawers,  in  the  closet.  Then 
they  returned  to  Hilda's  room,  she  fingering  the  letter. 


268  THE   HONEY   BEE 

She  stood  under  the  light  to  read  it ;  then  passed  it  over 
to  him. 

"My  dear  Hilda/' — so  ran  the  letter — "I  am  sorry  to 
leave  the  baby  alone  but  I  don't  dare  wait  any  longer.  It 
is  eleven  o'clock  and  you  will  be  home  pretty  soon.  Willf 
wants  me  to  leave  before  you  come.  I  suppose  he  is  right. 

"Yes,  I  am  going  back  to  him.  I  don't  suppose  there  is 
any  good  talking  any  more  about  it.  Dancing  is  my  busi- 
ness and  it  is  the  only  thing  I  can  do.  I  have  cost  you  a 
good  deal  of  money  I  know.  Some  of  it  I  can  never  pay 
back,  but  I  know  how  much  the  room  and  the  meals  are 
and  I'm  going  to  pay  that  back  as  soon  as  I  can  save  the 
money,  which  may  take  me  quite  a  little  while,  but  I  can 
only  ask  you  to  be  as  patient  as  you  can  with  me,  and  thank 
you  for  being  so  kind  to  me  as  well  as  baby. 

"This  is  all  now.  Prom  yours  respectfully, 

"ADELE  KAINEY." 

They  stood  for  a  little  time,  each  thinking  the  matter 
over  in  his  own  way. 

"She  has  been  so  quiet,"  Hilda  mused  aloud,  "I  never 
thought  of  this." 

"Harper's  been  at  her,"  said  Blink.  "He  put  her  up  to 
it,  all  right." 

"But  the  poor  child,  Blink!  We  can't  let  her  go  like 
this!" 

"I  know,"  said  he,  walking  over  to  the  window.  Then, 
"Harper  has  done  this.  He  can't  get  work  without  her, 
that's  what's  the  matter  with  him.  He  put  these  ideas 
into  her  head." 

Hilda  was  standing  quite  motionless,  her  fingers 
pressed  against  her  eyes.  She  looked  up  now,  studying 
Blink's  broad  back. 

"No,  that  doesn't  altogether  explain  it,"  she  said.  "There 


THE   HONEY   BEE  269, 

is  something  else.  She  has  been  very  unhappy.  She  de- 
spises that  boy." 

"Yes/'  Blink  agreed,  "she  does  that." 

"She  just  got  discouraged  and  gave  up.  The  poor  child ! 
i  And  I  wasn't  awake  to  what  was  going  on." 

"You've  done  a  lot/'  was  Blink's  comment.  He  was 
still  gazing  out  the  window.  "Of  course  you  couldn't  go 
on  very  long  taking  care  of  her  like  this.  As  she  says, 
dancing  is  her  business." 

They  were  silent  again. 

Hilda  spoke  first,  crisply:  "Blink,  we've  got  to  find 
that  child." 

"To-night?" 

"Yes,  now." 

He  turned  now.  "But  what  are  you  going  to  do  witK 
her?" 

"We'll  figure  that  out  later.  Maybe  I'll  send  her  back 
home.  I  don't  know.  But  we  can't  let  her  go  like  this." 

He  thought  this  over.    His  deliberation  was  exasperating. 

"I'll  handle  it,  Blink.  Just  leave  it  to  me.  But  I  can't 
very  well  knock  around  Paris  alone.  It  is  nearly  one 
o'clock  in  the  morning." 

He  went  right  on  visibly  thinking.    At  length  he  said--^ 

"They'll  have  his  address  at  the  Parnasse.  The  supper 
show  is  on  now.  If  Courbon  is  there  he  will  let  me  have 
it.  I  can  run  them  down  in  no  time.  You'd  better  wait 
here,  Hilda." 

"ISTot  for  a  minute,"  was  Hilda's  only  reply  to  this.  She 
reached  for  her  wraps,  took  her  purse  from  the  table  and 
left  the  hotel  by  his  side. 

There  is  never  an  hour  of  the  night  in  Paris  when  one 
may  not  find  a  cruising  taxi.  Moran  hailed  one  in  the 
Eue  Tronchet;  and  in  no  time  they  were  outside  the  gay 


270  THE   HONEY,  BEE 

music-hall  in  the  Boulevard  des  Capucines.  He  left  her 
in  the  cab,  and  entered  alone.  In  a  very  few  moments  he 
returned,  and  gave  an  address  to  the  chauffeur. 

The  car  turned  off  the  boulevard,  now  at  its  brightest 
with  the  night  life  that  to  so  many  is  Paris,  and  threaded 
flark  streets  toward  the  neighborhood  of  the  Gare  St. 
Lazare.  It  slipped  past  the  great  station,  with  its  terminal 
hotel,  and  entered  another  dark  street.  It  turned  in  be- 
fore one  of  innumerable  six-story  houses,  and  stopped. 

"Will  you  wait  in  the  car?"  asked  Blink. 

"No,  I'm  coming  in,"  said  Hilda. 

A  small  sign  beside  the  door  announced  this  particular 
house  as  the  Hotel  de  1'Univers — Chauffage  centrale — Eng- 
lish spoken. 

Moran  rang  the  bell.  They  stood  waiting.  The  build- 
ing was  wholly  dark.  Again  and  again  he  rang. 

Finally  they  heard  a  stirring  about  within,  and  the 
shooting  of  bolts.  Hilda  felt  in  her  purse. 

The  door  opened  a  little  way.  A  small  middle-aged 
Frenchman  stood  there,  holding  the  door  with  one  hand 
and  his  garments  with  the  other. 

Moran  addressed  him  in  French.  The  hotel  keeper  re- 
plied, hesitatingly  at  first,  then,  as  Blink  added  further 
remarks,  volubly. 

Hilda  caught  a  few  familiar  words  and  phrases.  It  was 
too  late.  Monsieur  et  Madame  could  not  be  disturbed  at 
such  an  hour.  They  must  wait  until  to-morrow. 

Hilda  held  out  a  gold  coin.  The  man  looked  at  it,  strug- 
gled for  a  moment  with  his  fine  French  thrift,  then  took  it 
and  opened  the  door — cautioning  them  to  be  quiet  and 
make  no  disturbance.  Moran  translated  in  a  few  words. 

The  man  let  them  in,  and  disappeared  to  add  a  touch  to 
his  wardrobe.  Then  he  led  the  way  up  winding  stairs. 


THE   HONEY  BEE 

They  ascended  flight  after  flight,  to  the  fourth"  or  fiftK 
floor.  At  the  end  of  the  dimly  lighted  hall  the  proprietor 
stopped,  indicating  a  door  leading  to  a  rear  room. 

Moran  tapped. 

Hilda  distinctly  heard  a  movement  inside.  But  there 
was  no  response. 

Moran  tapped  again — and  again. 

They  heard  a  low  sound,  as  if  the  boy  was  involuntarily 
clearing  his  throat. 

Again  Moran  tapped. 

Then,  at  last,  they  heard  him  approaching  the  door,  very 
slowly. 

The  door  was  unlocked,  then  opened  a  few  inches. 
Moran  instantly  put  his  foot  in  it;  and  opened  it 
wider. 

But  force  was  not  necessary.  Young  Harper,  in  shirt- 
sleeves and  minus  his  collar,  stood  before  them,  gaunt  and 
white,  with  black  circles  under  his  eyes.  There  was  no 
light  in  the  room.  He  must  have  been  sitting  there  in  the 
dark.  His  eyes,  over  bright,  stared  at  them.  His  hand 
shook  as  it  gripped  the  edge  of  the  door.  He  was  a  scared 
thing — an  abject  thing.  And  his  appearance  conveyed 
alarming  suggestions. 

"Is  she  here?"  asked  Moran. 

Harper  did  not  reply;  he  merely  swallowed. 

"Turn  on  your  light,"  Moran  commanded. 

Harper  seemed  unable  to  move. 

Moran  turned  to  the  landlord,  uttering  the  same  com- 
mand in  French.  That  person,  plainly  alarmed,  looked 
uncertainly  from  one  to  another;  then  djecided  to  obey. 

Hilda  caught  a  whiff  of  a  queer  odor  from  the  room.  She 
sniffed  it,  in  some  uncertainty;  then  exclaiming,  "Why,  it 
is  chloroform !"  slipped  past  the  three  men  into  the  room. 


272  THE   HONEY   BEE 

Across  the  bed,  still  in  her  overcoat,  lay  the  slim  per- 
son of  Adele.  Her  hat  was  off — was  on  the  floor,  in  fact, 
near  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Her  hair  was  rumpled. 

Hilda  bent  over  her  and  drew  away  the  limp  forearm  that 
lay  across  her  face.  She  was  breathing. 

Moran  was  at  her  side  now.  At  a  word,  he  brought  the 
water  pitcher  and  a  towel,  and  Hilda  sponged  her  face 
with  the  cold  water. 

Hilda  picked  up  the  hat.  Adele's  two  bags — a  satchel, 
and  a  suit-case  of  imitation  leather — stood  side  by  side, 
unopened,  near  the  door. 

"Carry  her  down,  Blink,"  said  Hilda.  "And  have  the 
man  bring  her  things." 

As  Moran  gathered  up  the  inert  body  in  his  arms,  rather 
clumsily,  Hilda  turned  toward  Will  Harper,  who  was 
now  leaning  against  the  bureau,  watching  them  with 
weakly  defiant  eyes. 

"What  have  you  been  doing?"  she  said,  sharply.  "You 
might  have  killed  her!" 

"Killed  her  nothing !"  replied  the  boy,  a  trace  of  hysteria 
in  his  voice.  "Whadoyou  mean,  killed  her!  I  ain't  hurt 
her  any.  I  was  just  keeping  her  quiet.  It's  her  own  fault. 
She  says  she'll  come  back  to  work  with  me,  and  then  after 
she  gets  here  she  has  cold  feet  and  tries  to  throw  me  down. 
She's  brought  it  on  herself,  I  tell  you.  I  been  mighty 
gentle  to  her,  if  you  ask  me." 

The  others  had  gone.    Hilda  gave  up,  and  followed. 

Moran,  managing  awkwardly  with  his  bandaged  hand, 
placed  Adele  on  the  rear  seat  of  the  taxi.  Hilda  got  in 
beside  her  and  took  the  drooping  head  on  her  own  shoulder. 
Moran  left  them  thus,  and  returned  into  the  hotel.  Hilda 
called  after  him,  but  he  gave  no  sign  that  he  heard.  She 
waited  in  some  anxiety. 


THE   HONEY   BEE  273 

In  a  very  few  moments  he  reappeared.  As  lie  was 
making  a  place  for  his  big  frame  on  one  of  the  narrow 
front  seats,  Hilda  said — • 

"You  didn't  hurt  him,  Blink?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "Nothing  like  that,  Hilda.  But  I 
warned  him.  He  won't  trouble  her  again." 

Hilda  stroked  the  cheek  of  the  unconscious  girl.  "The 
poor  child  !"  she  murmured. 

They  were  well  across  the  Boulevard  Haussman,  in  the 
familiar  Eue  Tronchet,  before  Hilda  spoke  again. 

"Blink,"  she  said,  "what  on  earth  was  the  boy  doing 
with  chloroform  in  his  room  ?  Do  you  suppose  he  planned 
to  drug  her  ?  And  chloroform,  of  all  things !" 

"I  don't  believe  he  planned  it,"  Blink  replied.  "He's  a 
crazy  one — likely  to  do  most  anything  when  he  gets  ex- 
cited." 

"But  what  was  he  doing  with  chloroform  then?" 

"Oh,  he  always  has  some  around.  Didn't  you  ever 
smell  it,  over  at  the  hotel  ?" 

"But  why,  Blink?" 

Moran  hesitated.  "Well — I  think  he  drinks  it.  He  has 
some  way  of  taking  it." 

"Drinks  it  ?"  Hilda  was  aghast. 

"Yes.  There's  a  lot  of  these  music-hall  people  take 
things.  Usually  it's  coke,  or  hop,  or  something." 

Hilda  did  not  catch  the  meaning  of  these  terms  of  tht 
underworld.  She  did  not  try.  She  was  holding  the  girl 
close,  stroking  her  cheek  and  thinking  swift  thoughts. 

"Blink,"  she  said,  "you  have  known  this  all  along  ?" 

"Yes.  That's  why  I  was  really  glad  when  he  ran  off 
with  Blondie,  and  we  could  take  her  in." 

"But  you  were  going  to  let  her  go  to-night." 

"I  didn't  see  what  we  could  do." 


274:  THE   HONEY   BEE 

"Well,  Blink,"  said  Hilda,  slowly  and  thoughtfully-* 
they  were  nearing  the  hotel  now — "I'm  beginning  to  think 
I  do  see  what  we  can  do.  "We  can  save  this  child.  And 
we're  going  to  do  it." 

To  which  he  replied — "I'm  glad  you  feel  that  way  about 
/it,  Hilda." 

Adele  was  beginning  to  show  signs  of  returning  con- 
sciousness. "When  Blink  was  carrying  her  up  the  stairs 
her  eyes  opened,  in  a  fluttering  way.  Her  face  was  pale 
and  pinched. 

Hilda  ran  ahead  and  opened  doors.  He  carried  her  in 
through  Hilda's  room,  past  the  still  sleeping  baby,  and  laid 
her  on  her  own  bed.  A  hotel  boy  brought  up  the  bags. 

"We  ran  a  risk,  leaving  baby  like  this,"  observed  Hilda; 
"but  it  had  to  be  done.  And  everything  seems  all  right." 

She  sat  for  a  short  time  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  chafing 
Adele's  limp  wrists  and  stroking  her  forehead.  Then  she 
looked  up  at  Moran. 

"Blink,"  she  said,  "you  are  tired.  I  never  saw  you  look 
like  this." 

"Well,"  said  he — "it  has  been  a  good  deal  of  an  eve- 
ning." 

"Yes," — she  slowly  nodded — "a  good  deal  of  an  evening, 
taking  it  by  and  large  .  .  .  You  go  to  bed  now,  Blink. 
I'm  going  to  undress  this  child  and  make  her  comfortable. 
;  I  think  she'll  be  all  right  .  .  .  And,  Blink,  I  want  to 
see  you  to-morrow.  I'm  not  through  talking  with  you — 
not  yet.  Suppose — if  everything  should  be  all  right  here 
— suppose  we  lunch  together,  over  at  the  Lucas." 

He  inclined  his  head.    He  did  look  tired. 

"Does  your  hand  hurt  much,  Blink  ?" 

"Hardly  any  now,  since  they  took  the  glove  off  and  gave 
it  a  chance  to  swell." 


THE   HONEY   BEE  275 

"I'm  glad  of  that.  I've  used  you  mercilessly  to-night. 
Good  night,  Blink." 

"Good  night,  Hilda.  Knock  on  my  door  if  you  need 
any  help." 


XX 


HILDA,    IN    HER    TURN",    TRIES    TO    PUT    OVEE   A    DIFFICULT 

PROPOSITION;  AND  is  MORE  SUCCESSFUL  THAN  ED  JOHN- 
SON WAS 

AELE  was  ill  during  most  of  the  night,  but  toward 
daylight  fell  into  a  natural  sleep.  In  the  morning 
she  was  much  better.  Hilda,  after  lying  awake  until  dawn, 
slept  through  the  breakfast  hour,  and  was  awakened  by 
cries  from  the  baby.  She  opened  her  eyes  to  find  Adele, 
fully  dressed,  heating  a  bottle. 

She  got  up  then,  and  busied  herself  about  the  room  for 
an  hour  or  so ;  then  bathed  the  baby.  When  this  operation 
was  finished  it  was  nearly  noon,  and  high  time  to  dress 
for  luncheon. 

Adele  had  little  to  say.  And  Hilda  did  not  bring  up 
the  troubles  of  the  night.  The  girl  was  in  a  humble  gen- 
tle mood;  and  all  the  morning  was  nervously  close  to 
tears.  So  their  occasional  little  conversations  ranged  only 
over  the  small  matters  that  centered  about  the  baby. 

Shortly  after  noon  Blink  looked  in.  Hilda  was  waiting,, 
hat,  coat  and  gloves  on,  and  joined  him  at  once.  In  a  few 
moments  the  urbane,  English-speaking  maitre  d'hotel  at 
the  Lucas  had  ushered  them  to  their  favorite  corner,  taken 
their  order  and  left  them  to  their  own  devices. 

Hilda  dropped  her  chin  on  her  clasped  hands,  and  looked 
across  at  him. 

276 


THE   HONEY   BEE  277 

"I  told  you  I  wanted  to  talk,  Blink.  You  see— we  were 
interrupted  last  night.  You  remember.  When  you  found 
Adele's  note  .  .  .  Tell  me — do  you  think  me  a  selfish 
woman  ?" 

He  looked  frankly  surprised.    "No,"  he  said. 

She  mused.  "I  don't  know.  I  wish  I  could  be  sure  of 
that.  If  I  am,  it  is  what  my  work  has  made  me.  I've 
been  trained  in  a  rough  school,  Blink.  I'm  a  good  business 
woman.  You  haven't  seen  that  side  of  me.  I  almost  wish 
you  had.  You  would  find  it  easier  to  understand.  ...  I 
talked  rather  wildly  last  night,  I'm  afraid.  I  hardly  knew 
what  I  was  saying.  But  you  see,  I  had  just  waked  up.  And 
it  was  right.  I  had  to  be  waked  up — even  if  it  was  at  your 
expense,  Blink — even  if  I  had  been  unfair  to  you  in  let- 
ting myself  drift  that  way.  I  told  you  last  night  I  couldn't 
marry  you.  To-day  I  see  it  even  more  clearly.  It  really 
is  out  of  the  question." 

He  met  her  gaze.  "I  know,  Hilda,"  he  replied.  "I've 
been  thinking  it  over,  too.  A  man  like  me — a  fighter, 
when  all's  said  and  done — couldn't  make  a  woman  like  you 
happy.  It  was  foolish  to  be  thinking  about  it." 

"Blink — please !  Don't  put  it  that  way.  Don't  you  see, 
I  can't  marry  anybody.  I've  been  nearly  all  night  think- 
ing it  out.  The  time  has  come  in  my  life  when  I've  got 
to  take  myself  in  hand  and  begin  facing  facts."  She  had 
been  speaking  rapidly.  Now  she  paused,  and  went  on 
more  quietly.  "I  seem  to  see  it,  at  last,  Blink.  I  told  you 
something  of  the  one  man  in  my  life.  I  still  love  him. 
You  don't  get  over  those  things,  you  know — not  where  you 
have  felt  deeply.  The  mere  sight  of  his  handwriting  tears 
my  nerves  to  pieces  even  now.  Sometimes  I  see  some  one 
on  the  street  that  walks  like  him,  or  wears  clothes  that 
look  like  his,  and  it  is  always — well,  a  sort  of  shock  to  me." 


278  THE   HONEY  BEE 

She  leaned  forward,  frankly  eager  for  his  sympathy.  "I 
don't  know  whether  you  have  ever  felt  as  deeply  as  that, 
Blink.  If  you  ever  have,  perhaps  you  can  understand." 

He  knit  his  brows  in  thought;  and  she  watched  him. 
"I  can't  say  that  I  ever  have  felt  just  that  way,  Hilda," 
he  replied,  at  length. 

"Well,  I  want  to  tell  you — the  thing  I  am  coming  to  see 
at  last — even  feeling  that  way,  with  all  the  pain  and  tor- 
ment of  that  old  heartbreak  still  in  me  strong,  if  he  should 
come  to  me  now  and  tell  me  that  he  was  free  to  marry  me, 
I  don't  believe  I  could  say  yes  to  him.  I  would  love  him. 
I  could  still  suffer  through  him.  But  to  give  up  my  inde- 
pendence, give  up  my  life  to  a  man — stop  working — stop 
being  somebody  and  become  Mrs.  Somebody — Blink,  I 
couldn't  do  it.  Too  much  water  has  run  under  the  bridge 
since  those  old  days.  I've  changed  so.  As  I  told  you  last 
night,  I've  built  up  too  much." 

She  mused  for  a  little  time,  very  soberly;  then  went  on — 

"I've  seen  other  business  women  go  to  pieces  over  this 
problem,  though  I  hadn't  lived  enough  to  understand  it 
before.  Some  of  them  quit  work,  give  up  their  independ- 
ence, and  marry.  Then  they  fight  with  their  husbands; 
and  often  they  are  too  old  to  have  children  to  bring  them 
happiness.  Some  of  them  keep  their  work  and  try  love 
without  marriage.  That  is  dreadful.  You  can  generally 
tell  which  ones  they  are.  They  get  hard,  and  bold.  Or 
else,  if  they  have  any  fineness,  they  suffer  terribly.  Then 
there  are  some  others  that  just  work,  and  suppress  all  their 
natural  feelings.  They  grow  querulous  and  old-maidish. 
Really  they,  most  of  them,  lose  their  vitality  and  run  off 
into  nerves  and  ill-health  ...  It  is  dreadfully  puzzling. 
You  don't  find  many  of  them  that  keep  simple  and  human 
and  go  on  working  right  through  middle  age.  A  few,  of 


THE   HONEY   BEE  279 

course,  but  not  many.  Women  don't  seem  to  work  it  out — 
not  as  men  do.  Sometimes  I  wonder  if  women  ever  will 
be  as  big  as  men." 

He  was  painstakingly  following  her  through  this  out- 
break. He  thought  it  would  do  her  good  to  get  it,  as  he 
mentally  phrased  it,  out  of  her  system. 

"It  doesn't  look  like  an  easy  problem,"  he  observed. 

"It  is  anything  but  easy,  Blink." 

"And  you  seem  to  be  right  in  it." 

"That  is  where  I  am." 

"Well" — it  was  his  turn  to  muse — "what  are  you  going 
to  do  ?  Do  you  know  ?" 

She  nodded ;  and  compressed  her  lips  for  a  brief  moment 
before  replying.  "I'm  going  to  work,  Blink — finish  up  my 
vacation— it  has  been  a  queer  sort  of  vacation ! — and  then 
go  straight  back  to  the  job.  I  shall  never  act  with  another 
man  as  I  have  acted  with  you.  I  know  now  that  it  is  selfisli 
and  unfair.  A  woman  mustn't  let  a  man  begin  to  make 
love  to  her  unless  she  is  prepared  to  give — and  give  with- 
out bargaining." 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "I  suppose  that's  only  right.  But  if 
you're  going  back  to  work  this  way,  aren't  you  just  pick- 
ing one  of  the  three  things  you  Bay  are — I  think  you  said 
that  was  dreadful." 

"It's  the  least  disastrous  of  the  three,  I  think,"  she  said. 
"It  is  along  the  line  of  my  habits.  And  it  makes  the  least 
trouble  for  other  people.  Besides,  my  plan  isn't  so  simple 
as  that."  She  hesitated.  A  warm  glow  came  into  her  eyes. 
'A  faint  wistful  smile  fluttered  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 
"You  are  forgetting  baby,"  she  added  then,  very  softly  and 
a  thought  huskily.  "I  am  counting  on  her  to  keep  me  hu- 
man. That  is  the  only  thought  that  gives  me  courage  to 
face  all  I've  got  to  go  through." 


280  THE   HONEY   BEE 

He  dwelt  on  this.  The  entr6e  had  come;  he  gave  it  his 
attention.  When  he  did  speak,  it  was  to  say — "You  don't 
know  how  good  it  feels  to  break  training  and  eat  a  little 
regular  food." 

But  she  was  still  watching  him.  "Blink,"  she  said,  "I 
know  what  is  in  your  mind." 

"Well,"  said  he,  "you  know  we  haven't  worked  that  busi- 
ness out  with  Juliette." 

"I  know.  But  I'm  sure  she  will  see  it  when  she  realizes 
all  I  can  do  for  baby.  I've  quit  worrying  about  what  the 
people  at  home  will  say.  I  shall  have  fight  enough  on  my 
hands  anyway,  without  manufacturing  new  difficulties.  I'm 
going  to  give  my  life  to  this,  Blink.  I'm  going  to  give  her 
a  training  and  an  education  that  will  make  your  Juliette 
proud  and  glad  for  her." 

It  had,  as  Blink  in  his  own  way  had  surmised,  done 
Hilda  good  to  talk  out  her  troubles.  As  the  meal  progressed 
her  tense  nerves  relaxed.  She  gradually  became  conscious 
of  the  crowd  about  them  and  of  the  gay  chatter.  She 
watched  Blink's  awkward  attempts  to  use  his  right  hand, 
and  herself  cut  up  his  meat  for  him. 

And  from  being  a  curiously  ingenious  egotist,  she  little 
by  little  became  a  friendly  and  briskly  observing  table 
companion.  Finally,  when  the  individual  coffee-pots  had 
been  brought,  and  their  thoughts  were  released  from  all  the 
engrossing  little  matters  of  the  table,  she  gave  him  another 
of  the  direct  friendly  looks  that  he  found  so  pleasantly 
characteristic  of  her,  and  said — < 

"I  really  dragged  you  here  for  something  very  different 
from  what  you  have  heard,  Blink.  Up  to  now  we  have  done 
nothing  but  talk  about  me.  What  I  really  want  to  do  is 
to  talk  about  you." 

He   exhibited  no   surprise;   merely   eipped   his   coffee, 


THE   HONEY   BEE 

looked  about  the  still  crowded  room  and  waited  for  her  to 
continue. 

And  Hilda,  on  her  part,  studied  him  for  a  little  while. 
She  had  a  definite  task  in  hand.  It  had  first  come  to  her 
in  the  early  hours  of  the  morning,  when  they  were  bring- 
ing Adele  back.  Since  then,  during  every  waking  moment,' 
the  thought  of  this  task  had  been  stirring  in  what  she  often 
referred  to  as  the  back  of  her  head. 

As  is  the  case  with  every  man  or  woman  who  has  been 
trained  to  handle  executive  problems,  and  who  has  that 
touch  of  creative  imagination  that  is  so  necessary  to  any 
except  purely  routine  work,  Hilda,  in  her  best  moments, 
was  conscious  of  thinking  and  feeling  on  many  planes 
at  once,  and  of  talking  one  thing  while  feeling  and 
puzzling  out  another.  Her  color  was  rising  a  little  now; 
partly  because  it  always  did  rise  when  she  was  stirred  te 
think  and  act,  and  partly  because  of  sheer  excitement  that 
Bhe  again  felt  the  impulse  to  think  and  act.  Indeed,  the 
stir  of  creative  energy  that  had  been  consistently  so  strong 
in  her  during  the  highly  creative  years  of  her  early  business 
success  was  strong  in  her  again.  She  felt  herself  again, 
rising  to  a  difficult  situation — the  sensation,  of  all  sensa- 
tions, that  she  perhaps  best  loved.  She  sat  there,  very 
quietly  indeed,  fingering  the  little  coffee  spoon,  and  looking 
calmly  at  the  man  who  had  come  so  closely  into  her  life 
and  whom  she  now  purposed  disposing  of  definitely  and 
finally.  She  was  altogether  conscious,  as  she  watched  him, 
that  her  mind  was  going  to  be  too  keen  and  swift  for  his. 
She  could,  as  she  might  have  phrased  it,  think  rings  around 
him.  And  she  had,  quite  suddenly — which  was  the  way  in 
which  it  always  came  to  her  when  she  was  "going  well" — 
perfect  confidence  in  the  accuracy  of  her  perceptions  and 
the  soundness  of  her  logic. 


283  THE   HONEY   BEE 

She  had  him  at  last.  She  knew  now,  as  well  as  one 
mere  human  could  know  another,  just  about  the  sort  of 
man  he  was.  She  was  finding  the  relation  between  the 
Blink  of  the  Hotel  de  1'Amerique,  the  Blink  of  all  those  in- 
timate hours  in  her  own  room,  and  the  great,  beautiful,  fe- 
rocious Moran  of  the  prize  ring — the  man  who  was  savage- 
enough,  businesslike  enough,  to  find  his  opponent's  weak- 
ness and  then  deliberately  hurt  him  there,  and  game 
enough  to  fight  through  nine  hard  rounds  with  a  broken 
hand,  without  so  much  as  admitting  the  trouble  to  his  own 
backers  .  .  .  He  was,  in  the  last  analysis,  a  rugged  man, 
gifted  with  a  wonderful  body,  strong  natural  moral  courage 
and  virtually  no  imagination.  He  was  kindly,  even  sweet- 
natured.  He  was — well,  a  dear.  But  he  was  also,  when 
all  was  said  and  done,  a  fighter ;  slow  of  mind  except  in  the 
one  craft  he  had  mastered.  As  he  grew  older  he  would  be 
steady,  thrifty,  strong;  and  probably  stubborn.  He  would 
go  his  own  way,  because  he  would  be  slow  to  grasp  the 
possibilities  of  any  other  way.  He  definitely  lacked  quali- 
ties that  were  becoming  more  and  more  necessary  to  Hilda. 
When  he  married,  and  in  his  mind  and  feelings  "settled 
down,"  he  would  surely  be  conservative  regarding  his  wife 
— not  from  any  selfish  desire  to  limit  her  growth,  but  be- 
cause he  would  never  know  how  to  be  anything  else  .  .  . 
Yet,  with  all  this,  he  was  the  second  most  attractive  man 
that  had  ever  come  into  her  life. 

She  did  not  dare  dwell  on  hia  attractiveness,  however. 
Already  she  felt  that  she  was,  in  turning  him  away  irrev- 
ocably, giving  up  something  very  fine  and  sweet  and 
friendly.  She  was  facing  a  terrible  loneliness.  She  would 
have  to  face  it.  Like  him,  she  would  have  to  be  game.  For 
the  combination  of  finely  simple  friendliness  with  great 
physical  attractiveness  was  one  that  might  overcome  the 


THE   HONEY   BEE  283 

Judgment  of  the  strongest  woman,  should  her  loneliness 
grow  deep  enough. 

"Blink,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  "you  ought  to  marry." 

He  mused  over  this ;  then  replied,  very  simply,  "I  know 
it." 

"And  you  ought  to  marry  a  simple  domestic  sort  of 
woman,  Blink — one  that  would  make  your  home  attractive 
and  take  good  care  of  you.  Don't  pick  out  a  woman  with 
nerves  or  an  imagination.  You  wouldn't  be  happy  with 
her.  And  you  deserve  to  be  happy." 

He  brooded,  without  replying. 

"One  of  these  days,  Blink,  you  must  go  back  home.  Don't 
stay  too  long  over  here." 

"I  know,"  said  he.  "I've  thought  about  that.  Of  course, 
if  the  stabilizer  makes  good — you  know,  that  new  aeroplane 
concern  I  have  a  little  money  in — why,  my  business  would 
be  here,  for  a  while,  anyway.  But  I've  thought  lately  I'd 
like  to  buy  a  little  place  not  too  far  from  ISTew  York — out 
on  Long  Island,  maybe,  or  over  in  Jersey — where  I  could 
have  a  few  acres,  and  raise  a  little  garden  stuff.  I  was  a 
country  boy,  you  know.  And  I'd  probably  want  to  keep  a 
few  bees.  I  sort  of  like  'em  around,  I  know  their  ways  so 
well.  And  it  gives  you  an  excuse  for  raising  flowers.  I 
like  flowers." 

Hilda  raised  her  coffee  spoon  a  little,  turning  it  slowly 
over  and  over,  and  studying  it. 

"Blink,"  she  said,  "I  suppose  there's  a  time  in  the  life 
of  any  man — or  woman,  either,  for  that  matter — when  he 
ought  to  marry,  if  he  means  to  at  all.  If  he  wants  to  make 
a  success  of  it." 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "that's  so,  of  course." 

"You  know  what  I  mean,  Blink."  She  raised  her  eyes. 
"I  couldn't  say  this  to  a  young  boy,  or  girl.  But  it's  true, 


284  THE   HONEY   BEE 

just  the  same.  There  is  love — that's  one  thing.  And  mar- 
riage— well  that  may  be  the  same  thing,  or  it  may  not. 
I'm  not  saying  that  it  isn't,  you  understand." 

"I  know,"  said  he.  "There's  a  lot  of  practical  considera- 
tions about  marriage.  The  French  have  a  pretty  good  un- 
derstanding of  that." 

She  slowly  nodded.  "Now  about  you,  Blink.  You  have 
told  me  of  your  feeling  for  me.  You  mustn't  think  I  fail 
to  understand  it  and  appreciate  it.  And  I've  told  you  my 
situation  exactly.  But  just  for  the  moment — and  count- 
ing on  you  to  understand  how  fond  I  am  of  you,  and  how 
much  you  have  meant  to  me  and  do  mean  to  me  now — I 
want  to  look  at  all  this  as  if  I  were  out  of  it  altogether. 
May  I  tell  you  exactly  what  is  in  my  mind  ?" 

"Yes,  I  wish  you  would." 

"Well" — she  knit  her  brows  and  compressed  her  lips; 
then  went  straight  on — "you  see,  Blink,  you.  are  a  pretty 
steady  sort  of  man.  You  don't  fly  off  the  handle.  You 
have  a  wonderful  knack  for  friendship.  You're  a  wonder- 
ful companion.  You  have  simple  tastes  .  .  .  Blink,  I 
think  you're  exactly  the  sort  of  man  that  needs  marriage 
and  a  home  much  more  than  you  need  to  be  all  burned 
out  by  what  we  call  love." 

He  lowered  his  eyes.  He  looked  very  sober.  She  re- 
called, suddenly,  the  story  Adele  had  told  her  of  the 
[French  girl  who  had  spent  his  savings,  years  back,  and  then, 
run  off  to  South  America. 

"I've  been  through  that  once,"  he  said,  without  look- 
ing up. 

"Well,  Blink — I'm  going  to  give  my  opinion  about 
you  now — straight  from  the  shoulder  .  .  .  You  won't 
mind?" 

"Go  ahead,  Hilda." 


THE   HONEY   BEE  285 

"I  want  to  see  you  married,  Blink.  Soon — real  soon. 
You're  ready.  You  need  a  home,  and  you  need  companion- 
ship. You  can  afford  it.  And  I  want  to  see  you  married 
to  some  quiet  simple  girl,  who  will  appreciate  you  and  de- 
vote her  life  to  you." 

For  a  little  time  he  continued  studying  the  table-cloth. 
His  face  was  expressionless.    Hilda,  very  quiet,  very  sure  * 
of  herself,  watched  him. 

He  lifted  his  solid  head.  His  eyes  met  hers,  and  found 
them  extraordinarily  strong  and  steady.  Just  for  a  frac- 
tion of  a  second  his  own  gaze  wavered.  It  was  the  first  time 
she  had  ever  seen  such  a  sign  in  him.  Instantly  the  old 
swelling  sense  of  power  rose  within  her.  "Love,"  she 
thought  again,  as  she  had  thought  once  when  talking  with 
the  bewildered  Stanley  Aitcheson,  "is  not  always  personal." 
And  suddenly,  with  a  sharp  little  twist  at  her  heart,  came 
the  added  thought  that  sometimes,  on  the  other  hand,  it  ia 
deeply,  terribly  personal. 

"Hilda,"  he  said  now,  "I  think  I  know  what  you're 
thinking  of." 

She  offered  no  reply ;  but  her  eyes  were  steadily  on  him. 

"You're  thinking  of  Adele." 

"Yes,"  she  said  bluntly,  "I'm  thinking  of  Adele." 

He  considered  this.  "Of  course,"  said  he,  "I  won't  say 
I  haven't  thought  of  that,  one  time  and  another.  Never 
very  definitely.  .  .  .  There's  one  thing  you  say  about 
me  I  know  is  so.  I  would  get  along  best  with  a  steady 
woman.  And  I  do  want  a  home." 

She  nodded. 

"Of  course,"  he  continued,  "if  Adele  wanted  me — " 

"Blink,  she's  heart  and  soul  in  love  with  you.  She  has 
been,  all  the  time.  I  was  blind — and  selfish.  I  can  see  it 
now.  That  is  just  what  is  the  matter  with  her." 


286  THE   HONEY   BEE 

" — if  Adele  wanted  me,"  he  went  on,  rather  stubbornly, 
"it  would  solve  her  problems.  It  is  hard  to  see  just  what's 
to  become  of  her,  as  things  stand  now." 

Hilda  met  this  statement  with  emphasis.  "Nothing  of 
the  sort,  Blink.  I  told  you  I  would  be  responsible  for 
Adele.  "Well,  I  will  be.  I  am  not  unloading  that  problem 
on  you,  and  never  shall.  I  have  let  you  see,  frankly  enough, 
how  I  feel.  You  and  I  can't  go  on,  for  the  reasons  I  have 
just  told  you.  Add  to  that,  I  have  at  last  admitted  to  my- 
self that  I  love  another  man,  whom  I  can  never  marry — 
therefore  I  can  not  marry  at  all,  without  surrendering  the 
last  shreds  of  my  self-respect  .  .  .  Which  disposes  of 
my  part  in  your  life,  excepting,  Blink,  as,  I  think,  a  life- 
long friend.  Now,  on  the  other  hand,  here  you  are,  not  a 
crazy  boy,  not  a  romantic  enthusiast,  but  a  mature  prac- 
tical man,  ready  to  settle  down,  in  need  of  companionship 
and — yes,  love.  And  here  is  Adele,  a  good  girl — " 

The  phrase  came  without  thought;  but  the  sound  of  the 
words  made  her  pause  an  instant.  Her  standards,  her 
judgments,  had  changed  of  late ! 

"Yes,"  said  Blink,  "she's  a  good  girl." 

"She  is  even  tempered,  modest,  capable — " 

"She's  all  of  that,  Hilda." 

" — and  she  is  eating  her  heart  out  for  you." 

Blink  thought  and  thought. 

"I  wonder — "  he  began,  after  a  bit,  then  closed  his  lips 
on  the  rest  of  it. 

Hilda  watched  him,  without  further  words.  She  had 
stated  her  proposition.  He  would  think  it  over ;  and  would 
either  accept  it  or  would  not. 

"Suppose,"  he  said,  a  little  later,  "it  shouldn't  turn  out 
this  way.  Suppose  Adele  and  I  shouldn't  marry.  What's 


to  become  of  her  then?  What's  your  plan?  Have  you 
got  any?" 

"Certainly.  I  shall  take  her  along  with  me  as  a  com- 
panion. She  could  help  take  care  of  baby  and  me.  It 
would  be  easy  to  make  her  feel  that  she  is  paying  her  way. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  I'm  beginning  to  wonder  how  on  earth' 
I'm  going  to  manage  without  her.  Then,  when  I  go  back 
home,  she  shall  come  with  me.  And  I'll  stand  by  her  until 
she  is  fixed,  one  way  or  another.  If  it  should  come  to  that, 
I  could  get  her  work  in  the  store/' 

She  could  see  him  deliberately  thinking  all  this  out. 
Then,  when  he  had  mentally  arranged  it  to  his  satisfaction, 
he  looked  up,  and  smiled. 

It  was  a  fine  smile — direct,  friendly,  quite  unself-con- 
scious. 

Her  eyes,  quite  unexpectedly,  as  she  faintly  returned  the 
smile,  filled  with  tears. 

"Hilda,"  he  said,  "you're  a  good  sport." 

She  shook  her  head.    She  could  not  say  anything. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  he  said.  This  was  later.  "I'm 
not  sure,  when  all's  said  and  done,  that  you  aren't  pretty 
near  right.  It  isn't  going  to  do  me  any  good  to  begin  get- 
ting upset  over  one  woman  after  another.  And  when  a 
man  begins  getting  excited  over  a  woman  he  can't  have, 
that's  just  what's  likely  to  happen." 

"Yes  it  is,  Blink.  I'll  tell  you" — she  leaned  forward, 
elbows  on  table,  and  looked  straight  at  him — "I'll  tell  you, 
to  think  about  love  means  that  you  are  going  to  think  more 
about  love." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  he — "if  you  start  something  .  .  . 
Take  the  German  army  now — for  years  they've  been  doing 
nothing  on  earth  but  getting  ready  to  fight.  They're 


288  THE   HONEY  BEE 

thinking  about  it  day  and  night.  Well,  one  of  these  days 
they're  going  to  fight." 

"Of  course,"  said  she.  "You  see,  Blink,  if  you  were  a 
high-strung  young  boy  I  couldn't  talk  to  you  like  this.  But 
you  aren't.  Nothing  of  the  sort.  I  know  you  pretty  well 
now,  Blink — " 

"Yes,  I  guess  you  do,  Hilda." 

"Yon  mustn't  marry  an  independent,  highly  specialized 
business  woman  like  me,  or  an  opera  singer,  or  a  Eussian 
dancer.  Pick  a  steady  one,  buy  your  little  place  on  Long 
Island,  and  keep  your  bees  and  flowers.  All  I  can  add  to 
that  is — if  it  isn't  to  be  Adele,  find  somebody  like  her  if 
you  can." 

They  left  the  restaurant  soon  after  this,  and  walked 
slowly  back  to  the  hotel.  Blink  was  silent,  all  the  way, 
until  they  reached  the  open  portal. 

There  he  paused.  Hilda  stood  quietly  watching  him, 
just  as  she  had  watched  him  for  hours. 

"Hilda,"  he  said  frankly,  "you're  right.  My  time  has 
come.  And  I  guess  there's  no  good  in  putting  it  off." 

"Not  a  bit,  Blink,"  said  she. 

In  this  manner  did  Hilda  Wilson  and  Blink  Moran  dis- 
pose of  the  ri.ddle  of  the  ages. 


XXI 

IN"  WHICH  NEWS  IS  EXPECTED,  AND  COMES;  BUT  FROM  A1ST 
UNEXPECTED  QUARTER 

BLIXK  went  directly  to  Ms  own  room.  Adele  was  sit- 
ting by  the  baby,  sewing.  And  so  Hilda,  a  very  few 
moments  later,  finding  on  inquiry  that  Adele  felt  no  in- 
clination to  go  out,  announced  that  she  would  take  a  long 
walk. 

Her  first  thought  was  to  go  over  to  the  American  Express 
and  inquire  for  mail.  But  by  the  time  she  had  reached  the 
corner  she  had  changed  her  mind.  The  mail  might  bring 
problems.  Her  life  was  entering,  this  day,  upon  a  new 
epoch.  She  must  get  as  far  as  possible  from  problems  and 
from  people.  So  she  walked  over  to  the  Boulevard  Male- 
sherbes,  and  through  to  the  Champs  Elysees  by  way  of  the 
Rue  d'Anjou  and  the  Rue  du  Faubourg  St.-Honore,  turn- 
ing off  to  the  left  finally  at  the  President's  Palace. 

It  was  a  sunny  spring  afternoon,  and  not  cold.  The 
great  park-like  avenue  was  alive  with  children  and  their 
nurses.  She  went  over  to  the  Punch  and  Judy  show,  near 
the  Theatre  Marigny  and  stood  for  a  time  outside  the  en- 
closure, studying  the  delight  of  the  children  in  the  age-old 
antics  of  ugly  little  Mr.  Punchinello.  The  little  girls  par- 
ticularly held  her  eye  and  thoughts.  She  fell  to  wondering 
how  it  would  seem  to  have — her  mind  hovered  hesitatingly 

289 


290 

over  the  phrase,  and  her  pulse  suddenly  quickened  its  beat 
— to  have  her  own  little  girl  grown  up  to  an  enjoyment  of 
outdoor  play. 

She  walked  on.  The  booths  of  the  toy  venders  were  do- 
ing a  good  deal  of  business.  Children  eyed  the  balls  and 
hoops  wistfully — so  wistfully,  in  the  case  of  one  great-eyed 
child  with  black  curls,  that  Hilda  bought  her  a  hoop  and 
passed  on  with  a  glow  in  her  heart. 

She  followed,  without  particularly  intending  it,  the 
route  she  and  Blink  had  traversed  so  often  in  their  walks. 
They  would  be  a  pleasant  memory,  those  walks.  They 
would,  at  times,  be  a  poignant  memory;  for  they  were  a 
part  of  the  one  real  companionship  of  her  life. 

She  was  right;  it  would  be  wrong  to  marry  Blink.  It 
simply  wouldn't  work.  But  he  had  been  a  wonderful  com- 
panion. She  would  never  forget  his  honesty,  his  simplicity, 
the  magnetic  attracting  power  of  his  strength  and  grace. 
•And  then,  he  had  kissed  her.  For  a  long  time  her  mind 
dwelt  on  that  kiss. 

She  wished  it  hadn't  happened.  She  did  not  blame  him, 
but  she  wished  it  hadn't  happened.  It  was  not  any  the 
(easier,  this  way,  to  put  him  out  of  her  mind.  Or  to  put 
the  thought  of  love  out  of  her  mind.  For  she  had  been 
Stirred.  And  now  she  was  going  to  be  lonelier  than  ever. 
.  .  .  with  youth  and  love  and  the  natural  joys  of  the 
senses  put  forever  behind  her.  She  was  crossing  a  line — 
the  great  line.  Soon,  dreadfully  soon,  she  would  be  close 
to  the  borders  of  middle  age. 

"Middle  age !"  .  .  .  The  prosaic  time  of  life  that  pre- 
cedes the  last  decline.  One  is  "sensible"  then,  if  ever.  One  is 
subdued.  One  is  "steady."  One  works  better,  yes — and 
is  easily  casual  in  manner,  and  inclined  to  be  careful  about 
(diet  and  about  the  proper  clothing  for  winter.  No  more  of 


THE   HONEY  BEE  291 

that  wonderful  eager  questioning  of  life  itself.  No  more 
risks;  no  more  blind  thrilling  dashes  at  the  game  of  life! 

No  more !  .  .  .  She  was  away  out  now  on  the  Avenue 
du  Bois  de  Boulogne,  walking  more  rapidly  than  was  nec- 
essary. She  slowed  her  pace.  She  must  have  passed  the 
Arc  de  Triomphe  without  knowing  it. 

She  turned  off  to  the  right  by  the  taxi  rank  at  the  Porte 
Dauphine,  and  followed  the  line  of  the  old  fortifications 
through  the  narrow  street  that  borders  them  on  the  inner 
side,  between  the  high  earthworks  and  the  railway  cut. 
Half-way  through  this  passage  she  suddenly  remembered 
that  it  was  a  reputed  haunt  of  the  Apaches.  It  was  not  an 
altogether  safe  place  for  a  youngish  woman  to  walk  alone, 
even  in  the  afternoon.  For  a  moment  the  thought  brought 
only  recklessness.  She  seemed  not  to  care  greatly  what 
might  happen.  There  was  not  any  too  much  to  live  for — * 
just  problems,  and  tangles  of  responsibilities,  and  endless, 
wearing  work  in  a  hostile  world — in  a  rather  ugly  world. 
.  .  .  But  then  pictures  of  the  baby  rose  again  in  her 
mind,  vivid  pictures.  There,  now,  was  something  to  work 
for.  There  was  an  aim.  She  must  take  good  care  of  her- 
self for  the  baby's  sake.  She  must  rebuild  her  health — > 
even,  if  the  thing  could  be  done,  regain  some  part  of  the 
enthusiasm,  the  buoyancy,  that  had  carried  her  thus  far. 
The  baby  would  help  her  to  be  young  again — or  younger. 

She  walked  more  rapidly;  and  was  relieved,  a  few  mo- 
ments later,  to  find  herself  emerging  quite  safely  on  the  fa- 
miliar open  Place  within  the  Porte  Maillot. 

"When  she  returned  her  room  was  empty.  Adele  was  out. 
Evidently  she  was  airing  the  baby  in  the  new  English 
perambulator  Hilda  had  bought,  at  a  price  that  had  fright- 
ened Adele  a  little.  It  had  not  occurred  to  the  little 
dancer  that  a  baby  carriage  could  cost  so  much. 


292  THE   HONEY  BEE 

Hilda  found  she  was  too  restless  to  stay  alone  in  the 
room ;  so  she  went  out  again,  this  time  for  her  mail. 

There  was  only  one  letter  for  her — from  her  mother. 
Margie,  it  appeared,  had  decided  to  announce  her  en- 
gagement; and  all  the  disturbance,  the  wistful  heartsick- 
ness,  which  the  mother  must  conceal  from  the  younger 
daughter,  was  discharged  in  this  letter  to  the  elder.  But 
after  a  few  moments,  while  she  was  walking  back  to  the 
hotel,  Hilda  found  herself  rather  welcoming  the  burden. 
It  gave  her  something  outside  herself  to  dwell  on.  Then, 
too,  she  seemed  to  have  a  better  understanding  of  her 
mother's  sorrows;  the  gulf  between  them,  the  inevitable 
gulf  between  two  generations,  was  certainly  not  so  wide  as 
formerly.  She  decided  to  give  up  the  evening  to  writing 
a  long  helpful  letter.  For  the  first  time  it  occurred  to  her 
that  her  mother,  too,  was,  as  she  now  phrased  it,  "stale  on 
her  job."  And  then  and  there  she  made  up  her  mind  to 
bring  her  mother  East  immediately  after  Margie's  wedding 
and  settle  down  to  housekeeping  with  her.  That  would  be 
good  for  both  of  them.  And  of  course  it  would  help  with 
baby. 

When  she  entered  the  hotel,  Blink  was  in  the  manager's 
office,  turning  the  pages  of  a  thick  little  book  that  Hilda 
recognized  for  a  railway  guide.  It  gave  her  an  odd  flutter. 
But  she  might  have  known  that  Blink,  once  the  decision 
was  made  and  his  course  laid,  would  not  hesitate.  His 
time  had  come.  He  had  said  it. 

He  heard  her,  and  glanced  up.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he 
must  surely  have  seen  her  as  she  moved  by  the  door  toward 
the  stairs.  She  had  a  smile  ready  for  him — perhaps  not 
a  radiation  of  good  cheer,  but  still  a  smile. 

But  he  lowered  his  eyes  to  the  book. 


THE   HONEY   BEE  293 

Probably,  she  thought,  it  was  just  self -consciousness.  A! 
man  is  entitled  to  a  little  of  that  when  he  leaps  precipi- 
tately toward  matrimony.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  had 
reddened ;  but  she  could  not  be  sure,  moving  by  so  rapidly. 

The  baby  was  back  in  her  basket  now.  The  door  to  the 
adjoining  room  was  ajar,  and  beyond  it  Adele  was  moving 
about  and  humming  a  "rag"  tune.  She  had  a  sweet  little 
voice.  A  few  moments  later  Blink  came  into  her  room  from 
the  hall,  and  Adele,  with  a  glance  in  at  Hilda  and  a  mum- 
bled pretext — something  about  not  disturbing  the  baby—- 
shut the  door. 

It  brought  a  pang  to  Hilda.  Curiously,  it  made  her  feel 
old,  as  well  as  painfully  alone.  But  it  was  better  so.  "\Vhen 
a  man  and  a  woman  join  hands  and  choose  the  single  path, 
no  others  should  be  near.  It  is  a  very  personal,  an  ex- 
clusive time.  Friends  will  reappear  later;  in  this  occasion 
they  can  have  no  part. 

The  afternoon  was  nearly  gone  now.  Hilda  made  herself 
physically  comfortable  in  a  negligee  and  began  the  letter 
to  her  mother,  composing  it  with  care.  For  it  was  to  be 
a  very  important  letter,  marking  the  end  of  one  great  crit- 
ical period  of  her  life.  Her  mother  must  find  support  in  it, 
and  courage — the  courage  of  a  daughter  who  was  young 
and  strong  and  successful,  quite  able  to  provide  a  comforta- 
ble home,  and  to  bring  into  it  health  and  good  cheer. 

Just  before  dinner  Adele,  very  self-conscious,  came  in  for 
a  moment. 

Hilda  said — "Don't  stay  in  unless  you  want  to,  Adele. 
I  shall  not  be  going  out  again." 

"Oh,"  replied  the  girl,  "all  right.  Perhaps  I  will  go 
then." 

Nothing  more  was  said.    Their  eyes  did  not  meet.  There 


294  THE   HONEY   BEE 

had  been,  of  late,  no  reason  why  Adele  should  wish  to  go 
out.  Neither  dwelt  on  this  fact.  Thus,  simply,  tacitly, 
was  the  great  change  in  their  lives  recognized  and  accepted. 

Hilda  ate  alone  in  her  room.  Then  she  set  the  tray  out 
in  the  hall,  and  drove  herself  back  at  her  letter. 

Adele  was  still  out  when  Hilda  gave  the  baby  her  ten 
o'clock  bottle  and  went  to  bed.  It  was  lonely,  this  room 
where  so  much  had  occurred  to  stir  her  feelings.  She  de- 
cided that  it  would  be  well  to  move  right  away.  She  would 
take  a  small  apartment.  Even  if  Adele  should  stay  in  with 
her  for  a  little  while — and  surely  some  small  time  must 
elapse  before  the  wedding — it  would  not  be  quite  so  bad. 
The  surroundings,  at  least,  would  be  new. 

Yes,  she  would  insist  that  Adele  stay  on.  She  would 
not  be  weak  or  sentimental  now.  It  would  do  her  good  to 
shut  away  her  own  feelings — stop  this  interminable  think- 
ing about  herself — and  make  the  girl  comfortable  until  the 
day  of  the  great  change. 

She  recalled  that  glimpse  of  Blink  studying  the  railway 
guide.  It  would  be  like  him  to  rush  matters  to  a  conclu- 
sion. Since  his  new  plan  implied  giving  Adele  a  home,  he 
would  permit  neither  her  nor  himself  to  drift  a  day  longer 
than  might  be  necessary.  That  was  where  Hilda  herself 
could  step  in. 

Yes,  she  would  be  good  to  Adele.  The  child  had  never 
known  happiness.  Now,  at  last  that  the  great  happiness 
was  coming  to  her,  she  should  experience  the  satisfaction, 
so  deeply  pleasing  to  a  girl,  of  feeling  that  everything  was 
being  done  "right." 

After  all,  despite  the  wrench  at  her  own  tired  heart, 
Hilda  decided  that  it  would  even,  in  a  way,  be  pleasing  to 
herself  to  take  a  part  in  the  fascinating  preliminaries  to  a 


THE   HONEY   BEE  295 

wedding.  The  very  fact  of  Adele's  humility — the  fact  that 
she  would  expect  nothing — would  intensify  the  pleasure  of 
giving. 

She  would  deliberately  make  the  girl,  for  once  in  her 
rather  battered  young  life,  the  center  of  her  small  stage. 
jShe  would  help  select  the  modest  trousseau.  It  need  not 
•cost  very  much;  and  it  would  bring  a  light  of  heavenly 
happiness  to  Adele's  eyes.  She  recalled  her  first  impres- 
sion of  those  "cow  eyes,"  as  she  had  seen  them  across  a 
writing  table  at  the  American  Express.  Yes,  it  would  be 
a  pleasure  to  light  them  up.  For  a  time  she  occupied  her- 
self in  mentally  going  over  Adele's  scant  wardrobe  and 
checking  off  her  needs. 

She  lay  quietly  in  bed,  the  light  out,  the  building  across 
the  street  dimly  visible  through  the  open  casement.  She 
seemed  to  feel  less  depressed  now.  Her  thoughts  of  Adele 
had  operated  to  restore  the  sensation  of  Blink's  steady 
friendship,  that  had  come  to  mean  so  much  in  her  life. 

She  dwelt  on  this.  After  all — despite  her  moments  of 
weakness,  despite  his  grotesquely  matter-of-fact  proposal 
of  marriage,  despite  the  one  kiss — that  had  been  the  pre- 
dominant quality  in  their  relationship,  friendship.  A  very 
fine  friendship ! 

She  felt  again  that  she  had  taken  the  right  course.  To 
have  permitted  the  stir  of  passion  really  to  enter  their  rela- 
tionship would  have  destroyed  the  friendship.  This  way, 
they  still  had  it,  would  always  have  it.  Yes,  she  would 
make  Adele  happy,  for  once.  Blink  would  understand  and 
appreciate  it.  There  was  even,  now,  a  warm  little  glow  at 
the  thought.  In  this  mood  she  drifted  easily  to  sleep. 

After  breakfast,  on  the  following  morning,  she  heard 
Adele  and  Blink  talking  in  the  next  room.  Their  voices 


296  THE   HONEY   BEE 

•were  low  and  guarded.  Then  Blink  went  back  to  his  own 
room.  Hilda  could  hear  his  familiar  light  step  in  the  cor- 
ridor, and  then  the  opening  of  his  door. 

A  little  time  passed  before  Adele  tapped  softly  and 
opened  the  door.  She  had  her  coat  and  hat  on. 

She  evidently  had  something  on  her  mind  to  say,  some- 
thing that  she  found  difficulty  in  saying.  After  a  moment's 
hesitation  she  knelt  by  the  basket  and  played  with  the 
baby's  little  hands.  They  were  not  thin  hands  now;  there 
was  a  dimple  at  each  knuckle. 

"Hilda,"  Adele  asked,  still  plainly  gaining  time,  "don't 
we  need  milk  ?" 

Hilda  looked  into  the  tin  ice-box.  "Yes,"  she  replied, 
"we  do." 

"All  right.  I'll  go  around  by  the  Rue  des  Mathurins 
and  order  it." 

As  she  lifted  the  baby's  small  fist  in  her  own  left  hand, 
Hilda  saw  a  ring  on  her  third  finger,  a  very  new  ring,  set 
with  a  single  rather  large  diamond.  It  was  a  good  stone, 
she  thought.  But,  then,  it  would  be.  Blink  would  do  it 
that  way.  She  saw  that  Adele  was  smiling  down  with  a 
new  womanly  softness  at  the  morsel  of  life  in  the  basket. 
She  was  glad  that  it  was  all  working  out  so  well. 

"Hilda,"  said  Adele  then,  suddenly  serious.  "Blink  and 
I  are  going  out  to  Auteuil  to-day." 

"Oh,  are  you?" 

"Yes — to  the  hospital.  I  don't  know  if  they'll  let  us 
see  Juliette.  If  they  won't,  it's  all  right,  of  course.  There 
isn't  any  hurry,  with  everything  going  so  well  here.  But 
if  she  is  strong  enough,  we'll — we'll  talk  with  her." 

For  a  moment  Hilda's  heart  stood  still.  Quite  uncon- 
sciously she  had  been  coming  more  and  more  to  take  the 
success  of  her  own  new  plans  for  granted.  But  now,  thus 


THE   HONEY  BEE  297 

abruptly  brought  face  to  face  with  the  issue,  she  was  caught 
in  an  uprush  of  misgivings.  She  covered  her  confusion  by 
saying  in  her  most  matter-of-fact  voice — 

"Well,  I  ought  to  know  pretty  soon,  Adele,  if  I'm  to  plan 
things." 

"Yes,"  Adele  murmured,  "I  suppose  that's  so."  She 
moved  to  the  door.  "I'll  see  you  later  in  the  day,  Hilda. 
And  we'll  ask  for  your  mail  while  we're  out."  Then  she 
went  into  her  own  room,  closing  the  door  behind  her.  A 
moment  later  Hilda  heard  her  outer  door  open  and  close. 

Toward  noon,  Hilda  began  to  watch  for  their  return. 
She  sat  for  a  while  by  the  open  window,  looking  idly  down 
into  the  street.  Though  it  occurred  to  her,  as  the  noon 
hours  wore  away,  that  they  would  lunch  somewhere  outside. 
Too,  Auteuil  might  be  some  little  distance  from  the  city. 
She  did  not  know  just  where  it  was. 

The  morning  had  been  raw,  but  at  noon  the  sun  appeared. 
She  continued  in  her  room  until  about  two  o'clock.  She 
made  various  efforts  to  read,  but  with  no  success.  Her 
thoughts  had  followed  Adele  and  Blink  to  that  invalid  girl 
in  a  hospital  that  until  this  day  had  been  little  more  than 
a  myth  to  her.  It  was  now  suddenly,  painfully  real.  This 
Juliette,  whom  she  had  never  seen  and  whom,  for  days  at 
a  time,  she  had  all  but  forgotten,  was  now  real,  as  well.  It 
was  as  hard  to  write  letters  as  to  read  books.  Her  mind 
would  not  come  down  to  it.  She  was  thinking,  thinking — 
what  if  this  faint  remote  shadow  should  close  in  about  her 
now,  all  at  once,  darkening  her  life. 

She  faced  this  thought,  not  with  the  resentment  that,  a 
month  or  two  later,  would  have  blazed  up  in  her  spirit, 
but  with  a  humble  sort  of  dread.  If  Juliette  should  be 
better — if  Juliette  should  be  unable  to  see  the  wisdom  of 
permitting  her  fatherless  little  girl  to  be  reared  in  a  good 


g98  THE   HONEY   BEE 

home,  with  every  advantage  .  .  »  try  as  she  would,  it 
was  extremely  difficult  to  face  this  contingency.  She  had 
known  of  it,  of  course;  yet  she  realized  now  that  she  had 
been  taking  the  opposite  for  granted — altogether  too  much 
for  granted. 

She  dropped  on  the  floor  by  the  basket,  and  sat  there 
for  a  long  time,  watching  every  motion  of  the  baby;  rear- 
ranging, with  loving  fingers,  the  coverings  that  the  vigor- 
ous small  legs  would  insist  on  kicking  aside,  responding  to 
the  wonderful  little  smiles  with  tears  that  came  rushing 
into  her  eyes  and  made  it  hard  for  her  to  see. 

She  felt  that  this  was  an  unwholesome  indulgence,  and 
at  two  o'clock  took  baby  out  for  an  airing.  She  had  not 
been  out  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  that  deep,  deep  anxiety 
drove  her  back  to  the  hotel.  No,  they  had  not  returned. 
She  felt  strongly,  as  she  wheeled  the  carriage  off  for  the 
second  time,  that  she  must  bring  her  nerves  and  thoughts 
under  control.  There  must  be  no  more  "going  to  pieces." 
If  she  had  any  character,  now  was  the  time  to  show  it. 
Deciding  that  she  did  have  some  character,  she  went  reso- 
lutely away,  and  did  not  return  until  a  little  after  four. 
Even  then  she  did  not  hurry,  but  deliberately  walked  up 
the  stairs  with  the  baby  in  her  arms. 

Still  they  had  not  come  back.  At  least  they  were  not 
here.  They  might,  of  course,  have  come  in  and  gone  out 
again. 

She  laid  the  baby  back  in  the  basket,  and  made  her  com-  * 
fortable,  while  putting  a  bottle  to  heat.    Then  she  saw  that 
Adele's  door  was  open.    It  seemed  to  her  that  it  had  been 
closed.    Yes,  surely,  Adele  had  shut  it  when  she  went  away 
in  the  morning. 

She  looked  in.  A  parcel  had  been  dropped  on  the  bed. 
!And  on  the  table  stood  a  box  of  American  chocolates, 


THE   HONEY  BEE 

opened  and  partly  eaten.     Hilda  smiled  faintly  as  she 
glanced  at  them. 

She  came  back  into  her  own  room!.  As  she  went  over 
to  the  wardrobe  to  hang  up  her  coat,  she  saw  a  white  en- 
velope on  the  chair  by  the  door.  She  had  walked  right  by 
,it  when  she  came  in.  So  Adele  had  been  here,  and  had 
'not  waited  to  give  her  the  news.  That  seemed  a  little — > 
well,  heedless.  For  she  must  have  known  how  anxiously 
Hilda  would  be  waiting.  And  Blink,  too — he  would  think 
'of  that.  Still,  no  news  was,  in  a  way,  good  news.  That 
box  of  chocolates  was  surprisingly  reassuring.  They  had 
been  having  a  good  time,  a  boy  and  girl  sort  of  time.  Even 
allowing  for  the  thrill  of  their  new  relationship,  even  al- 
lowing for  Adele's  sudden,  deep  happiness,  they  surely 
would  not  have  been  staying  away  for  hours,  playing 
like  children,  nibbling  chocolates,  were  they  the  bearers  of 
bad  news. 

i  She  hung  up  her  coat ;  then  moved  over  to  the  chair  to 
pick  up  the  letter.  It  was  a  long  plain  envelope,  a  "legal 
size"  envelope. 

Before  her  outstretched  hand  touched  it,  she  wavered, 
bent  closer,  looked. 

It  was  from  Harris  Doreyn,  and  was  postmarked  "Lon- 
idon." 

j  She  picked  it  up,  and  turned  it  over  and  over  in  her 
ihands.  It  was  thick.  Either  he  had  written  a  long  letter, 
or  else  there  were  enclosures.  Hardly  the  latter,  though, 
for  he  certainly  had  nothing  of  hers. 

He  was  still  in  London,  then.  Or  he  had  been,  a  short 
i  twenty-four  hours  earlier;  the  postmark  bore  the  imprint, 
,  "April  1,  10  a.  m."  To-day  was  the  second — Wednesday, 
the  third. 

He  had  been  in  London  all  this  time,  weeks  and  weeks. 


300  THE   HONEY  BEE 

Tet  the  last  she  had  heard  from  him  had  been  that  brief 
note,  written  at  Chicago  in  midwinter,  announcing  that  he 
was  coming  to  New  York  to  see  her. 

She  carried  it  over  to  the  window.  Strong  as  was  her 
curiosity,  she  delayed  opening  it.  She  wondered  what  he 
had  been  doing  in  London  all  this  time. 

Then  she  wondered,  suddenly  confused,  how  he  had 
found  her  address.  Doubtless  he  had  got  it  in  New  York 
as  he  passed  through.  Then  he  had  known,  all  this  time, 
where  she  was.  He  could  have  communicated  with  her. 
But  he  had  not  done  so.  He  had  always  had  the  power  to 
stir  her  to  resentment — to  unaccountable  little  resentments 
that  flared  up  unexpectedly  and  laughed  at  logic.  She  was 
flaring  up  now ;  but  not  so  strongly.  Her  life  had  deepened 
of  late.  Still,  she  was  flaring  up.  She  felt  the  color  rush- 
ing into  her  face. 

She  deliberately  dropped  the  still  sealed  letter  on  the 
bureau.  It  occurred  to  her  that  in  her  preoccupation  of 
the  morning  she  had  actually  forgotten  the  baby's  bath. 
Though,  for  that  matter,  baby  usually  slept  better  at  night 
if  bathed  near  the  end  of  the  day  instead  of  in  the  morn- 
ing. She  must  not  bathe  her  just  yet,  of  course,  so  soon 
after  the  bottle ;  but  she  would  get  the  bath  ready,  all  but 
heating  the  water.  She  wanted  to  do  something  with  her 
hands.  She  could  not  read  that  long  letter — that  letter 
from  the  one  man  who  had  brought  love  into  her  life — 
while  this  nervous  flush  was  on  her  cheeks,  while  that  con- 
fusion of  queer  little  resentments  was  stirring  within  her. 
So  she  brought  the  light  papier-mache  tub  from  the  ward- 
robe and  set  it  on  its  familiar  chair.  She  got  out  the  towels 
and  soap.  She  filled  the  kettle  from  the  water  pitcher  and 
set  it  over  the  alcohol  lamp.  Within  the  half -hour  it  would 
be  all  right  to  start  the  water  heating. 


THE   HONEY  BEE  301 

There  was  nothing  more  she  could  do  in  this  direction. 
So  she  went  over  and  sat  by  the  window  and  looked  out. 
She  decided  that  she  would  read  the  letter  as  soon  as  this 
absurd  flutter  of  the  nerves  should  have  passed. 

What  she  had  told  Blink  was  what  she  really  felt;  deep 
in  her  heart  and  in  her  reason.  She  was  pretty  sure  of  this. 
Even  should  Harris  Doreyn  come  to  her  as  a  free  man  and 
ask  her  to  become  his  wife,  she  would  have  to  say  no.  For 
too  much  time  had  passed.  Surely  he  had  changed,  almost 
as  she  had.  As  she  had  said  to  Blink,  too  much  water  had 
run  under  the  bridge. 

Yes,  more  and  more  strongly  she  felt,  as  she  sat  there—- 
hands relaxed  in  her  lap,  deliberately  inhaling  deeply  the 
crisp  outside  air,  gazing  apparently  toward  the  building 
across  the  way,  but  really  looking  far,  far  into  the  past — 
that  the  time  when  she  might  have  married  successfully 
had  long  since  gone  by.  It  occurred  to  her  that  this  was 
a  selfish  thought;  it  had  to  do  only  with  her  own  success 
in  life,  her  own  happiness.  Still,  was  it  wrong  to  consider 
these  things?  Would  it  be  sound,  would  it  be  honorable 
even,  to  bring  to  the  man  that  loved  one  only  a  deep  unrest, 
a  great  unhappiness  ? 

She  turned  slowly  in  her  chair  and  looked  for  a  time  at 
the  very  little  person  in  the  basket  who  had  lately  come 
to  play  so  engrossing  a  part  in  her  life.  Baby  was  awake. 
She  could  see  the  little  hands  waving  about.  She  could 
hear,  now  and  then,  a  gentle  gurgling  and  cooing. 

Her  eyes  filled  again.  She  got  up  and  walked  to  Adele's 
door — stood  irresolutely  there,  looking  in  at  the  box  of 
chocolates  on  the  table.  Adele  was  a  child — a  nice  child. 
She  must  try  to  make  Adele  happy. 

But  she  wished — nervous  and  restless  again — that  Adele 
would  come  back.  It  was  all  right,  of  course.  Such  indi- 


303  THE   HONEY  BEE 

cations  as  there  were  pointed  toward  good  news  rather  than 
bad.  But  it  was  a  strain,  waiting  like  this. 

She  raised  her  arm  and  looked  at  the  watch  on  her  wrist. 
It  was  getting  on  toward  five  o'clock.  "Why  didn't  they 
come? 

She  looked  again  at  the  watch.  It  was  the  one  Blink 
had  given  her.  She  recalled,  poignantly,  the  moment, 
there  in  the  corridor  just  outside  her  door,  when  he  had 
caught  her  arms  and  drawn  her  for  an  instant  back  against 
him — and  how  she  had  thought,  in  a  flash  of  memory,  of 
the  moment  when  Harris  Doreyn  had  caught  her  in  the 
same  way,  passing  from  the  dining  car  to  the  sleeper  of  the 
Chicago  train. 

What  a  tangle !    What  a  blind  tangle — no  way  out ! 

She  felt  it  almost  as  a  pain. 

"Life  is  terrible,"  she  thought. 

She  came  back,  and  stood  looking  down  at  the  letter.  She 
thought  then  that  she  had  better  open  it.  Why,  since  she 
felt  reasonably  certain  that  it  could  not  seriously  affect  her 
life  now,  should  she  hesitate  in  this  way !  One  might  al- 
most think  that  she  was  afraid  of  it. 

Then  a  warm  curiosity  surged  within  her ;  and  the  color 
returned  to  her  cheeks.  Why  had  he  written  that  painfully 
brief  note  asking  permission  to  see  her  in  New  York  ?  Why, 
receiving  no  reply,  had  he  gone  on  to  London?  And  why, 
of  all  things,  had  he  waited  for  weeks  in  London,  appar- 
ently knowing  her  address,  yet  making  no  effort  to  see  her  ? 

It  occurred  to  her,  with  a  sharp  wrench  of  feeling,  that 
he  might  have  been  ill.  Something  might  have  hap- 
pened. 

She  held  the  long  envelope  up  to  the  light,  shook  it,  and 
carefully  tore  off  the  end. 


XXII 

I 
THE  BABY'S  BATH  is  FIEST  DELATED,  THEN  INTEEEUPTED 

FOE  A  MOMENT,  BY  EVENTS  IN  WHICH  THAT  SMALL  PEE- 
SON  FEELS  NO  IMMEDIATE  INTEEEST 

THE  letter  was  long.  It  explained  much.  It  was  indi- 
rect, even  rambling,  with  here  and  there  the  homely 
observations  and  bits  of  a  worker's  philosophy  that  were 
characteristic  of  Doreyn.  In  the  concluding  paragraphs 
were  sentences  that  for  sheer  tenderness  and  sweetness  of 
spirit  forced  Hilda  to  look  away  and  dry  her  eyes. 

So  much  a  hasty  glance  through  the  closely  written  pages 
told  her.  She  could  not  begin  really  reading  it  until  she 
had  skimmed  it. 

It  was  an  extraordinary  letter — she  could  see  that. 
There  was  much,  much  of  the  old  Harris  Doreyn  in  it.  The 
familiar  sense  of  the  man  so  long  out  of  her  life,  was  set- 
tling again  about  her  spirit  as  a  comfortable  old  glove  set- 
tles about  the  fingers.  Even  at  the  moment  she  realized 
this,  and  found  the  fact  confusing.  For  surely  she  had 
changed ;  surely  all  that  water  had  run  under  the  bridge ! 
.  .  .  There  were  evidences  here  of  the  changes  in  him. 
They  were  not  what  she  had  foreseen,  these  touches  of  some- 
thing very  like  humility — submissiveness,  even.  Though  he 
had  never  been  an  aggressive  man,  in  the  familiar  crude 
sense.  He  had  advanced  by  tirelessly  thinking  out  prob- 
lems, by  seeing  far  and  arriving  at  accurate  conclusions. 

303 


304  THE   HONEY   BEE 

But  now  he  was — well,  older.  Not  negative  in  spirit,  cer^ 
tainly  not  beaten,  but  older.  In  the  old  days  he  wrote 
more  directly  and  crisply.  And  he  had  possessed  a  dry  sort 
of  humor ;  but  there  was  not  much  humor  here.  She  recalled 
,  his  serious  illness  of  a  few  years  back.  He  had  spent  more 
jthan  a  year  at  Carlsbad.  At  one  period  the  papers  had 
spoken  of  him  as  dangerously  ill ;  and  a  good  deal  had  been 
said  about  his  character  and  achievement.  .  .  . 

Again  she  pressed  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes ;  then  set- 
tled back  to  begin  at  the  beginning  and  read  the  letter 
through. 

"Dear  Hilda,"  it  began.    Then— 

"Those  two  words  look  very  cold,  very  formal.  The 
impulse  is  strong  in  me  to  use  the  old,  sweet  phrases  I  used 
to  use — you  permitted  me  to  use — all  those  years  ago.  But 
something  holds  me  back.  Of  course,  for  one  thing,  you 
definitely  took  away  from  me,  when  we  agreed  to  part,  the 
right  to  use  those  phrases.  And  again  on  that  dreadful 
night  when  we  met  on  the  train,  and  dined  together,  and  I 
got  off  at  that  little  town  in  Pennsylvania.  Do  you  remem- 
ber, Hilda  ?  But  of  course  you  do.  Those  experiences  are 
not  so  easily  forgotten.  I  suppose — though  my  mind  has 
always  been  unable  to  accept  the  fact — that  your  life  has,  in 
a  sense,  begun  since  then.  Certainly  you  have  built  it  up, 
and  in  what  you  have  built  I  have  no  share.  But  you  won't 
have  forgotten  that  night." 

Hilda  lowered  the  letter  to  her  lap,  let  her  head  rest 
against  the  chair-back  and  closed  her  eyes.  Did  she  re- 
member ! 

It  was  rushing  back  to  her  mind's  eye — a  clear-cut  pic- 
ture of  him  standing  there  on  the  station  platform,  grip- 
ping his  suit-case  and  umbrella — a  tall,  almost  gaunt  figure. 
And  it  hurt;  hurt  with  the  old  bitter  sense  of  incomplete^ 
ness,  of  unsatisfied  hunger  of  soul  and  body,  that  was  like 


THE   HONEY   BEE  305 

pain.  .  .  .  So  he  had  not  forgotten,  either !  But  then, 
he  wouldn't  forget.  She  might  have.  It  was  rather  strange 
that  she  had  not,  in  the  intense  preoccupation  of  her  life 
since  then;  for  she  was  not  big,  not  as  he  was.  Come  to 
think  of  it,  she  had  always  counted  on  his  being  bigger  than 
ehe.  She  had  known  he  would  keep  away,  would  let  her 
have  her  life.  And,  excepting  in  her  bitter  moments,  she 
had  always  been  able  to  think  of  him  as  a  strong  successful 
man.  She  had  always  been  able  to  feel  that  she  had  not 
hurt  him  in  any  way.  He,  by  the  solidity  of  his  success, 
had  let  her  feel  that.  He  had  even  held  his  family  together. 
She  knew  that  from  the  occasional  reports  of  his  strong 
prominent  wife.  .  .  .  She  might  easily  have  had  that 
family  on  her  conscience;  but  he  had  spared  her  such  self- 
reproach.  Every  one  about  Harris  Doreyn  seemed  to  grow. 
Even  Hilda  herself,  she  thought  now,  was  simpler  and  big- 
ger for  having  known  him,  worked  with  him,  in  a  pitifully 
incomplete  fashion  loved  him. 

She  opened  her  eyes  slowly,  like  one  coming  awake ;  com- 
pressed her  lips ;  then  read  on : 

"That  note  I  wrote  you  from  Chicago,  Hilda — the  note 
in  which  I  asked  if  I  might  come  to  New  York  to  see  you — 
marked  the  final  great  change  in  my  life.  I  did  not  wait 
any  too  long  for  an  answer.  After  a  week,  I  came  on  to 
New  York.  There — right  at  the  railway  station,  just  after 
my  train  got  in — I  called  up  the  Hartman  store  and  asked 
for  you.  They  said  you  were  abroad.  They  did  not  appear 
to  know  when  }'ou  would  return.  I  asked  for  your  address, 
announcing  myself  simply  as  an  old  friend.  They  said  that 
you  would  be  either  at  London  or  Paris,  and  could  be 
reached  in  care  of  the  American  Express.  I  caught  a  ship 
the  next  day.  On  the  ocean  there  was  time  to  think  things 
over.  I  hardly  knew  myself,  acting  in  this  impetuous  way 
after  all  the  years  of  discipline.  But  I  did  know  that  I  had 
to  make  one  last  effort  to  find  you  and  talk  with  you. 


306  THE    HONEY   BEE 

"In  London  I  went  to  the  American  Express  and  in- 
quired for  you,  only  to  learn  that  you  had  not  been  there 
and  had  left  them  no  forwarding  address.  That  night  I 
fell  ill — one  of  the  attacks  that,  I  may  as  well  confess,  I 
have  come  to  dread  of  recent  years.  I  did  have  one  long, 
,very  serious  illness.  This  attack  was  a  recurrence.  You 
'know,  once  our  body  chemistry  takes  to  working  wrong,  it 
•can  be  the  perversest  thing  on  earth.  But  after  a  few  rela- 
tively comfortable  years  I  had  grown  into  a  sort  of  overcon- 
fidence.  I  really  thought  I  was  well.  Now  I  know  better. 
It  is  plain  that  I  was  not  strong  enough  to  endure  the  burn- 
ing eagerness  that  seized  me  at  the  moment  I  finally  de- 
cided to  look  these  old  puzzling  problems  of  my  life  in  the 
face  and  act,  for  a  change,  and  at  last,  honestly.  During 
that  week  of  waiting,  in  Chicago,  then  on  the  train,  and  in 
New  York,  and  during  that  endless  ocean  trip,  I  was,  I  can 
see  now,  in  a  sort  of  fever  of  the  spirit.  It  was  not  like  me. 
It  was  more  like  an  inexperienced  boy.  But  the  inexperi- 
enced boy  can  endure  that  sort  of  strain  where  the  older 
man  can  not.  It  wore  me  out.  I  broke  down,  as  one  does, 
in  my  weakest  spot.  I  am  up  and  about  now.  I  meet  peo- 
ple, and  talk  business  a  little;  but  am  not  really  myself. 
One  thing  I  am  glad  of,  on  the  whole.  I  am  glad  that  I  did 
not  see  you  while  I  was  in  that  state.  For  I  can  see  now 
that  it  was  an  abnormal  state.  As  it  is  now,  in  case  I  should 
chance  to  meet  you — which  is  altogether  unlikely  in  the  few 
days  that  remain  to  me  on  this  side — I  think  I  could  be 
rational. 

"There  is  a  confession  I  must  make  to  you — and  an  ex- 
planation. There  are  moments — they  came  frequently 
during  my  illness,  and  were  very  disturbing — when  I  fear 
that  I  have  acted  wrongly.  Toward  you,  I  mean.  There  is, 
of  course,  a  good  deal  of  concentrated  egotism  in  these  in- 
tense, personal  experiences. 

"I  hardly  know  how  to  begin  telling  you.  It  is  such  a 
very  long  story ;  and  yet  it  can  not  be  so  very  long  in  this 
letter.  It  is  the  story  of  my  life  during  fourteen  criti- 
cal years.  Though  of  course  you  know,,  if  you  will  rouse 


THE   HOXEY   BEE  307 

your  memory,  a  good  deal  about  the  first  three  or  four  of 
those  years.  When  we  were  working  together,  I  mean,  and 
for  a  time  afterward.  So  my  present  story  is  concerned 
with  the  ten  years  since  then.  Probably,  as  it  is  so  difficult 
to  begin  what  must  be  said,  I  had  better  just  plunge  at  it 
blindly,  and  trust  that  you  still  retain  enough  of  your  old 
understanding  of  me  to  interpret  it. 

"I  can  see  now  that  it  is  not  so  uncommon  a  story.  When 
we  are  young  each  of  us  thinks  his  sorrows  great  and  pe- 
culiar above  the  sorrows  of  others.  As  we  grow  older,  we 
learn  better.  Our  suffering  is  pitifully  like  the  sufferings 
of  others.  Every  one  who  is  capable  of  feeling  is  hiding  a 
sorrow  very  much  like  your  peculiar  sorrow,  or  mine. 

''Well — here  is  the  story. 

"After  you  had  gone  out  of  my  life,  I  tried  to  forget  you. 
I  really  did  try.  It  was  rather  absurd,  but  I  did.  There 
were  times  when  I  nearly  succeeded.  Those  were  the  times 
when  the  tide  turned  with  me,  and  I  was  buoyed  up  by  the 
excitement  of  success.  But  even  in  those  clays,  some  unex- 
pected little  sight  or  sound  or  vagrant  thought  was  enough 
to  set  me  afire  again  with  the  old  feeling  for  you.  Some- 
times I  have  even  gone  so  far  as  to  think  that  it  would 
have  been  better  if  we  had  had  the  courage  to  love  honestly 
and  completely — if  we  had  gone  ahead  and  broken  the  laws 
as  they  stand  about  us.  I  can  say  that  now,  at  last ;  for  the 
time  has  finally  passed  during  which  this  might  have  oc- 
curred. I  mean  that  then  we  might  have  completed  our  ex- 
perience, accepted  the  final  relationship  with,  at  least,  its 
release  from  the  tremendous  nervous  strain  of  resisting  our 
love,  and,  in  some  way,  passed  on  to  deal  with  life  on  the 
new  terms.  We  might  have  been  able  to  part,  then,  with- 
out these  devastating  after  effects.  We  might  even  have 
worked  through  passion  into  friendship.  This  does  happen, 
I  think,  now  and  then. 

"But  there,  I  suppose,  speaks  the  man.  As  I  read  back 
over  it,  it  is  plain  enough  that  I  am  thinking  only  of  my- 
self. Surely  I  am  not  sound  there.  Women  and  men  ap- 
proach these  awful  problems  differently.  And  your  instinct 


308  THE    HONEY   BEE 

in  the  matter  was  right.  It  must  have  been  right.  Besides, 
the  man  has  the  upper  hand  in  these  situations.  The  final 
burden  of  suffering  always  falls  on  the  woman. 

"No,  when  I  think  it  over  in  this  light  I  feel  that  I  am 
all  wrong,  and  not  a  little  selfish.  If  I  have  grown  since 
those  days,  it  was  surely  through  suffering.  Hilda,  this 
very  trouble  has  more  than  likely  contributed  to  your  own 
growth.  Success  in  which  there  is  no  suffering  is  a  terribly 
hard  thing,  a  brutal  thing.  It  is  hardly  a  matter  of  chance 
that  the  greatest  finest  figures  in  history  are  those  who 
have  suffered  most. 

"I  have  taken  to  reading'  a  good  deal  of  recent  years. 
The  slackening  of  my  business  anxieties — and  then,  of 
course,  my  illness — have  brought  me  to  it.  And  I  have 
thought  a  good  deal  about  these  things.  I  have  thought 
too  about  morality — the  morality  of  my  own  city,  actual 
and  professed  (two  very  different  things)  and  of  other 
places.  My  city  in  particular  only  because  I  know  it  better. 

"I  reread  The  Scarlet  Letter  this  year.  I  saw  it  in  a 
new  light.  It  seems  to  me  now,  sometimes,  that  there  is 
tremendous  truth  in  the  fact — seldom  dwelt  on  that  I  know 
of — that  the  one  triumphant  figure  in  that  book,  shining 
out  against  the  dour  background  of  early  hard  New  Eng- 
land and  its  unyielding  conscience,  is  the  sinner,  Hester 
Prynne. 

"Last  year  I  reread  the  New  Testament — or  the  four  gos- 
pels. I  had  come  to  a  point,  far  back,  where  I  couldn't 
seem  to  find  much  real  religion  in  the  places  where  it  is 
professed.  It  always  seemed  pretty  unreal,  and  remote 
from  life.  But  that  is  not  true  of  the  New  Testament — up 
to  the  point  where  the  hard-headed  Paul  steps  in." 

Hilda  lowered  the  letter  again,  and  for  a  time  gazed  out 
the  window  with  eyes  that  did  not  see  very  much.  This  was 
indeed  a  new  Doreyn. 

"In  fact  there  is  downright  religion  in  the  philosophy  of 
Christ,  as  we  find  it  there.  More  religion,  more  charity 
and  tolerance,  more  understanding  of  life,  than  its  modern 


THE    HOKEY   BEE     .  309 

expounders  seem  able  to  read  out  of  it.  It  is  a  philosophy 
that  I  seem  able  to  understand,  getting  it  more  or  less  at 
first  hand,  that  way. 

"But  this  isn't  telling  you  my  story,  Hilda.  And  tell  it 
I  must. 

"It  is  about  my  wife — Lillian.  She  and  I  have  agreed  to 
separate.  It  was  never  practicable  before,  with  the  girls 
growing  up.  But  now  they  are  both  in  college.  And  they 
are  both  of  a  pretty  independent  spirit,  like  their  mother — 
and,  I  suppose,  like  me.  It  is  sad,  of  course ;  and  very  per- 
plexing. The  rooting  out  of  settled  family  habits  is  a  pain- 
ful process.  Even  in  such  a  case  as  this,  where  Lillian  and 
I  have  been  out  of  sympathy  ever  since  the  first  few  years 
of  our  married  life.  She  is  a  good  woman,  of  strong  char- 
acter. And  she  is  ambitious.  Now  her  ambitions  appear  to 
be  pretty  well  gratified.  She  has  built  a  strong  place  for 
herself  in  that  exceedingly  small  percentage  of  our  social 
body  that  she  regards  as  'Society/  And  she  does  a  consid- 
erable amount  of  really  useful  work  in  certain  clubs  and  or- 
ganizations. There  is  no  trouble  between  us — perhaps  you 
will  be  glad  to  know  that.  This  is  merely  the  inevitable 
conclusion  of  our  long  drift  apart.  She  would  prefer  to 
avoid  a  divorce  in  order  to  keep  up  appearances  and  protect 
her  social  fences.  She  is  frank  about  that,  and  very  prac- 
tical. 

"But  I  have  to  admit  that  I  can't  keep  up  appearances 
any  longer.  Ever  since  that  wonderful  and  awful  day 
when  I  admitted  to  you  (and  to  myself)  that  you,  by 
some  ruthless  miracle  of  nature — you,  Hilda  ! — were  the 
one  women  in  the  world  who  had  the  power  to  stir  the  deep 
recesses  of  my  nature  that  had  never  been  stirred  before,  to 
lift  my  senses  and  my  thoughts  into  the  extraordinary 
magic  of  love — ever  since  that  day  I  have  had  to  undergo 
the  strain  of  living  a  double  life  of  the  spirit.  I  used  to 
feel  then  that  sooner  or  later  I  would  break  under  this 
strain.  And  I  have  broken  under  it.  The  moment  came 
when  I  could  not  endure  it  longer.  God  knows  I  have 
fought.  For  years  and  years  I  have  tried  to  live  for  work 
and  duty,  with  that  baffled  love,  still  magical,  still  miracu- 


310  THE   HONEY   BEE 

lous,  flaming  up  unaccountably  in  my  heart  and  in  my 
thoughts.  And  so  finally  the  day  came  when  I  told  the 
truth.  After  all  those  years ! 

"We  did  not  mention  your  name.  We  never  have  dis- 
cussed you.  But  she  knows.  I  am  sure  of  that. 

"And,  too,  she  knows  that  we  never  sinned — technically. 
•  In  telling  her  that  there  was  and  is  another  woman  in  my 
heart,  I  explained  that  much.  And  she,  of  course,  believes 
me.  But  I  am  not  proud  of  the  fact.  Technical  virtue,  of 
which  so  much  is  made  in  this  world,  is  not  altogether  a 
pleasing  thought  to  me  now.  There  is  usually  cowardice  in 
it,  I  think — and  often  a  hard  practical  self-interest. 

"That  is  my  confession.  That  after  all  these  years,  I 
have,  in  my  breakdown,  again  involved  you,  even  though 
your  name  has  not  been  spoken.  I  wish  it  could  have  been 
avoided.  But  perhaps  you  would  forgive  me  for  failing,  as 
certainly  I  have  failed,  to  carry  the  secret  of  our  old  love 
through  to  the  grave,  if  you  knew  what  an  immense  relief 
this  new  clean  breast  is  to  me.  For  fourteen  years  I  kept 
the  secret.  For  fourteen  years  I  lived  that  inner  double 
life.  I  felt  myself  a — well,  a  liar,  in  a  hundred  little 
silences  and  evasions  and  suppressions  every  day  of  my  life 
during  those  years.  And  probably  since  I  am  not  by  na- 
ture an  indirect  or  evasive  man,  but  a  frank  one,  the  truth 
had  to  come  out  at  last. 

"Certainly,  like  you,  I  never  sought  that  love.  It  burst 
upon  us,  on  you  and  me.  We  did,  I  think,  the  best  we  could 
— we  gave  up  our  possible  happiness,  and  each  went  on  to 
face  life  alone.  I  do  not  know  much  of  your  side  of  the 
story  since  then,  beyond  the  evident  fact  that  you  have  been 
true  to  the  character  and  ability  I  always  felt  in  you  and 
have  made  at  least  a  material  success  of  your  life.  Of 
course  I  am  glad  of  that — very  glad.  I  have  been  proud  of 
you,  am  proud  of  you  now. 

"It  may  be  that  my  attitude  toward  Lillian  and  the  girls 
may  seem — read  in  so  fragmentary  and  incomplete  a  letter 
as  this — to  be  cold  and  a  little  hard.  I  do  not  think  it  re- 
ally is ;  but  it  may  seem  so. 

"All  I  can  say  as  to  that  is  that  during  fourteen  years — 


THE   HONEY  BEE  311 

during  practically  all  of  my  most  vigorous  years,  what 
might  be  called  my  prime — my  strength  has  been  devoted 
unquestioningly,  entirely,  to  providing  for  them  and  equip- 
ping them  to  meet  life.  If  my  heart  was  elsewhere,  at  least 
my  hand  and  my  brain  have  been  unreservedly  theirs. 
What  could  not,  in  a  victim  of  one  of  Nature's  grim  pranks, 
be  a  labor  of  love,  I  made  a  labor  of  duty.  That  appeared 
to  be  all  I  could  do.  If  it  was  'wrong/  if  my  present  atti- 
tude is  'wrong,'  at  least  it  represents  the  best  I  have  been 
able  to  do  with  my  life. 

"The  story  is  not  really  so  simple  as  that,  of  course.  In 
many,  many  respects,  I  have  probably  proved  a  decent  hus- 
band and  father,  even  when  most  bewildered  in  my  efforts 
to  work  out  some  sort  of  a  philosophy  of  life.  But  what  I 
have  said  seems  to  be  about  the  net  of  it  all,  as  I  look  back. 

"And  now,  all  this  appears  to  bring  me  to  what  I  really 
have  to  say. 

"I  am  going  back,  Hilda.  I  sail  Saturday,  on  the  'Adri- 
atic. Perhaps,  in  case  this  letter  reaches  you  in  time,  you 
will  send  me  a  word  in  care  of  the  ship  at  Liverpool.  Just 
some  sort  of  human  word,  that  would  be  like  a  handclasp 
between  us,  and  a  Godspeed  from  each  to  each. 

"I  am  not  returning  in  any  frenzy  of  remorse  and  re- 
pentance. Not  that,  Hilda.  I  did  rush  over  here  in  a  mad 
fevered  pursuit  of  you,  no  doubt  about  that ;  and  have  been 
a  good  deal  humbled  by  this  distressing  physical  breakdown 
and  the  chastening  of  spirit  that  it  appears  to  have  brought. 
It  is  simply  that  at  last  I  realize  that  the  time  is  past  when 
I  might  have  offered  myself  to  you.  Long  past.  While  I 
may  be  up  and  about  for  years,  my  health  is  as  good  as 
gone.  The  physicians  tell  me  that,  and  I  know  that  they 
are  right.  The  fever  of  love  can  not  seize  me  again.  I  must 
be  quiet.  My  new  freedom  will  help  there.  It  will  be 
such  a  relief  just  to  live  frankly  and  honestly  after  all  these 
years.  It  may  even  prove  a  relief  to  be  alone,  to  think  and 
read,  and  work  a  little,  and  find  refreshment  in  new  scenea 
and  new  friends. 

"The  curious  fact  is  that  this  last  mad  effort  to  find  you 
and  offer  my  love  appears  to  have  been  in  itself  something 


312  THE   HONEY   BEE 

of  a  climax  to  my  years  of  suppression.  It  appears  to  have 
brought,  now  that  it  and  its  painful  consequences  are  past, 
something  in  the  nature  of  reaction.  I  had  to  make  that 
great  effort.  I  did  make  it.  Now  I  feel  that  I  can  go  back. 

"It  may  be  more  difficult  later.  But  that  is  the  way  I 
seem  to  feel  now.  And  I  am  going. 

"For  now,  just  as  formerly,  it  would  not  do  for  me  to 
bring  a  wreck  to  you.  It  simply  would  not  do.  If  we  could 
be  happy  in  each  other,  yes.  But  we  could  not  be — not  on 
those  terms.  I  have  had  my  mad  moment,  my  mad  dream ; 
and  there  has  been  a  sort  of  satisfaction  in  it.  But  it  was 
mad,  even  though  there  was  glory  in  it.  And  now  that  it 
is  over  I  must  go  back. 

"It  helps  me  in  this  resolution  to  realize  that  you  are 
still  young — wonderfully  young — are,  in  fact,  hardly  more 
than  beginning  the  great  campaign  of  life.  While  I  am 
Boon  going  to  be  an  old  man.  It  would  be  all  wrong  for  me 
even  to  think  of  attempting  to  check  your  growth  and  prog- 
ress by  fastening  my  life  on  yours  now. 

"This  is  not  a  plea,  Hilda.  It  is  a  statement  of  fact  that 
I  now  perceive  clearly  enough.  And  you  are  not  to  think 
of  me  as  an  altogether  unhappy  man.  There  will  be  much 
in  life  for  me.  And  perhaps,  now  that  the  long  strain  is 
broken,  now  that  my  breast  is  at  last  clean  before  the  world, 
I  may  bring  myself  to  become  (what  I  have  not  been,  God 
knows !)  a  friend  to  you.  I  have  been  through  much.  I 
have  been  battered  about  a  good  deal,  and  have  observed  a 
little,  here  and  there.  Perhaps,  in  your  continued  growth 
as  a  business  woman,  I  may  help,  now  and  then. 

"Not  just  now,  but  later  on  when  I  get  my  life  somewhat 
reorganized.  Anyway,  if  it  is  not  too  late,  and  if  you  feel 
that  you  can,  send  that  line  to  the  steamer,  telling  me  that 
we  are  friends. 

"And  remember,  Hilda,  whatever  you  may  have  become, 
however  your  life  may  have  changed,  that  there  lives  a  man 
whose  inner  life  has  never  swerved  away  from  you.  I  do 
not  altogether  understand  this  set  of  experiences  that  we 
group  so  loosely  and  casually  under  the  term  'love';  but 
whatever  love  is,  it  is  the  only  word  that  we  have  to  express 


THE   HONEY   BEE  313 

what  I  feel  for  you.  I  love  you,  Hilda.  It  is  too  late  for 
some  things — it  is  not  too  late  to  tell  you  that.  This  love 
has  been  the  one  little  flame  in  my  spirit  that  never  has 
flickered  out,  even  when  life  pressed  hardest.  It  has  been  a 
stimulus,  always.  It  has  been  my  faith,— even,  in  a  sense, 
my  religion.  I  fought  it  down  for  years  and  years,  only 
to  find  that  at  last  it  was  to  blaze  up  again  and  warm  every 
remote  cold  corner  of  my  heart.  Once  again — for  the  last 
time,  I  feel  sure — it  has  driven  me  to  break  bounds.  It  has 
found  its  own  climax  in  this  desperate  journey  over  seas. 

"I  can  only  welcome  the  whole  experience,  since  it  had  to 
be.  If  it  hurt,  it  has  also  helped.  And  in  this  strange  cli- 
max it  has  once  more  stirred  my  feelings  into  a  sort  of  tri- 
umph over  the  workaday  routine  of  life. 

"So  I  am  going  back  now,  to  pick  up  the  broken  strands 
of  life  and  weave  such  a  new  fabric  as  may  be.  The  briefest 
word  from  you — at  the  steamer,  on  Saturday — will  be  all  I 
need  to  complete  this  experience.  Even  that  I  must  not 
expect  too  confidently.  For  God  knows  where  you  are  and 
when  this  will  reach  you.  But  in  any  event,  dear,  think 
gently  of  me,  and  permit  yourself  to  feel  that  my  thoughts, 
my  hopes — yes,  my  prayers — are  with  you. 

"Good-by.    And  good  luck  to  you ! 

"HARRIS  DOREYN." 

As  she  lowered  the  letter  finally  to  her  lap,  a  faint,  pleas- 
ant cooing  eound  came  from  the  basket  behind  her.  She 
turned.  The  baby  was  awake.  And  there,  on  a  chair,  was 
the  little  papier-mache  bathtub,  waiting.  She  had  been  a 
long  time  over  the  letter.  She  folded  it  now,  replaced  it  in 
the  Jong  envelope,  and  laid  it  on  the  bureau.  Then  she 
lighted  the  alcohol  lamp  under  the  kettle,  first  looking  to 
make  sure  that  she  had  not  neglected  to  fill  it. 

Slowly,  this  done,  she  closed  the  casement  against  the 
cool  air  of  approaching  evening,  and  undressed  the  baby, 
gazing  soberly  at  the  fat  little  legs  as  she  threw  the  waiting 
blanket  about  them. 


314:  THE  HONEY  BEE 

She  was  finding  some  difficulty  in  thinking  clearly,  or 
rather  in  feeling  clearly.  Mere  thinking  was  hardly  more 
difficult  than  usual.  Her  mind  told  her  that,  however  dis- 
turbing the  facts,  Doreyn  was  right.  It  was  wonderful  that 
he  could  still  feel  so  deeply ;  this  hig  man,  older  and  phys- 
ically weaker,  but  still  big  in  spirit.  There  was  a  sheer 
thrill  in  the  thought.  It  warmed  her,  even  while  this  sud- 
den new  consciousness  of  his  suffering  brought  the  tears 
rushing  to  her  eyes.  But  her  mind  said  that  he  was  right. 
No  matter  how  great  the  suffering,  it  was  better  this  way. 
Their  lives  had  grown  too  far  apart.  Too  much  water  had 
run  under  the  bridge.  The  difficulties  were  even  greater 
than  he  could  perceive.  For  he  had  been  a  mature  man 
back  there  in  those  first  days  of  their  love,  while  she  had 
been,  in  mind  and  feeling,  a  half-formed  young  woman. 
The  changes  in  her  since  then  had  been  immeasurably 
greater  than  any  conceivable  change  in  him.  As  it  stood 
now,  in  the  light  of  his  letter,  the  whole  sad  experience  of 
their  best  years,  hers  and  his,  was  tinged  with  beauty.  It 
was  better  that  way.  He  was  right.  It  was  wonderful  that 
he  had  been  moved  to  straighten  out  his  twisted  life,  after 
all  those  years  of  a  great  duty  solidly  performed,  and  had 
come  all  this  way  to  find  her  and  speak  his  love.  But  now 
he  must  go  back. 

So  much  for  logic !  But  logic  and  mind  were  not  all. 
•From  the  deepest  recesses  of  her  emotional  self  came  waves 
of  feeling  that  confused  and,  at  moments,  alarmed  her. 

She  poured  the  hot  water  into  the  tub,  dropped  in  the 
bath  thermometer,  and  slowly  added  cold  water  from  the 
white  tin  pitcher  that  stood  by  the  washstand. 

Yes,  he  was  right.  He  must  go  back  alone.  But  it  was 
wonderful  that  he  had  come.  She  would  surely  be  a  better 


THE   HONEY   BEE  315 

woman  now,  after  this  earnest  of  his  faith.    The  thought 
brought  a  glow  to  her  cheeks. 

She  worked  briskly,  with  deft  hands — throwing  the 
blanket  aside  and  lowering  the  little  body  into  the  water. 
With  one  hand  she  supported  the  baby's  head  and  back; 
with  the  other  she  sponged  the  tender  skin,  gently  but  with 
vigor  enough  to  bring  a  glow  to  the  surface  that  outdid  the 
color  on  her  own  cheeks. 

The  very  little  girl  responded  with  faint  experimental 
smiles  and  soft  sounds.  She  had  learned  to  enjoy  her  bath. 

Hilda  decided  now  that  she  would  post  her  reply  on  this 
evening.  That  would  be  giving  the  letter  more  than  time 
enough;  but  she  would  be  sure  it  would  reach  him.  And 
ehe  would  send  it  to  the  ship,  as  he  requested;  not  to  his 
hotel.  There  was  a  collection  of  mail  at  eleven  every  night 
from  the  box  in  the  tobacconist's  shop  on  the  corner  of  the 
Eue  Tronchet ;  between  now  and  eleven  there  would  be  time 
enough  to  write  a  good  letter. 

She  fell  to  thinking  out  this  letter.  He  had  bared  his 
soul — she  would  bare  hers.  At  least  she  would  try.  She 
must  show  her  appreciation  of  his  wonderful,  lasting  affec- 
tion, while  at  the  same  time  giving  him  a  clear  vision  of 
the  immense  changes  in  herself.  She  would  accept  his  offer 
of  friendship,  by  giving  him  her  own  confidences  at  once. 
She  would  tell  him  all  about  the  work,  and  something 
about  her  breakdown,  as  she  was  beginning  to  term  it  in  her: 
own  thoughts.  She  had  many  times  wished  that  he  might 
know  of  her  little  successes.  More  than  once,  when  urging 
some  detail  of  business  policy  on  a  group  of  keen,  hard- 
thinking  men  associates,  she  had  wished  that  he  might  see 
how  well  she  was  handling  the  situation.  And  now  there  was 
within  her  a  warm  surging  of  healthy  pride  that  she  could, 


316  THE   HONEY   BEE 

at  last,  give  him  a  glimpse  of  the  mature,  reasonably  strong 
woman  she  had  grown  to  be. 

She  decided  to  order  up  a  light  dinner  as  soon  as  the 
baby  was  bathed  and  fed;  and  then,  before  seven  o'clock, 
set  to  work  on  the  letter.  She  would  slip  out  herself,  later, 
and  drop  it  in  the  box. 

But  then,  when  she  appeared  to  be  planning  coolly 
enough,  conscious  of  only  a  slight  quickening  of  pulse,  she 
recalled  that  difficult  evening  on  the  train.  So  it  had  lived 
poignantly  in  his  memory,  as  well  as  in  hers !  .  .  .  She 
felt  again  his  arms  about  her,  drawing  her  close  back 
against  him.  She  felt  again  his  broken  whispering  close 
to  her  ear.  She  felt  his  kiss  on  her  lips. 

Then  she  found  this  memory  vaguely  entangled  with  the 
memory  of  other  arms  and  another  kiss — this  last  in  a  taxi- 
cab,  skimming  along  the  dusky  Champs  Elysees,  late  at 
night.  She  tried  to  thrust  the  thought  of  the  later  experi- 
ence out  of  her  consciousness.  It  lingered.  She  closed  her 
eyes.  She  could  almost  literally  feel  that  eager  pressure  on 
her  lips.  It  was  Doreyn — and  then,  momentarily,  it  was 
not. 

The  baby  was  in  her  lap  now.  She  opened  her  eyes  and 
continued,  very  gently,  the  drying  process.  Then  she 
reached  for  the  talcum  powder. 

She  heard  Adele's  outer  door  open — and  close.  The  con- 
necting door  was  slightly  ajar,  as  she  had  left  it. 

There  was  the  sound  of  light  footsteps  in  the  next  room. 
Then  she  heard  whispering.  It  was  Adele  and  Blink ;  that 
much  was  certain.  She  wished  she  could  hear  what  they 
were  saying.  Her  nerves  were  tightening.  She  felt  a  touch 
of  the  old  pain  at  the  back  of  her  head  that  had  been  spared 
her  of  late. 


THE   HONEY   BEE  317 

She  reached  out  for  the  little  shirt  of  silk  and  wool  and 
drew  it  deftly  over  the  baby's  head  and  arms. 

Now  she  caught  a  few  words. 

"No,  Blink" — this  was  Adele — "I  think  you  had  better 
let  me  do  this.  You  wait  here.  Of  course  she  has  got  to 
know." 

"Of  course  she  has  got  to  know!" 

Hilda's  overtightened  nerves  suddenly  relaxed.  She  sank 
back  in  her  chair.  The  color  swiftly  left  her  face. 

They  were  whispering  again  in  the  next  room. 

The  baby  whimpered. 

Hilda  collected  her  faculties  with  a  strong  effort,  and, 
looking  down,  saw  that  the  baby  was  cold.  She  wrapped  the 
blanket  about  her,  and,  lifting  her,  held  her  close.  "With 
the  motion,  and  the  warmth,  the  baby  quieted  and  in  an- 
other moment  was  smiling  again.  Hilda,  still  very  white, 
her  lips  compressed,  her  eyes  dry  and  bright,  pressed  the 
soft  little  cheek  tenderly  against  her  own. 

She  heard  Adele  crossing  the  next  room,  coming,  toward 
the  connecting  door.  She  heard  the  other  door  open  and 
close,  and  knew  that  Blink  had  gone  out.  Then  Adele 
tapped,  and  entered.  There  were  tears  in  the  girl's  eyes. 


XXIII 

IN"  WHICH  HILDA  EXHIBITS  HER  JUDGMENT  AND  CAPACITY ; 
BUT  FINDS  IT  DISTINCTLY  EASIER  TO  ACT  THAN  TO 
THINK 

A~)ELE  came  over  and  stood  by  the  bureau,  looking 
soberly  down  at  the  partly  dressed  baby. 

Hilda  went  on  with  her  task. 

Finally  Adele  said,  in  what  was  meant  for  an  offhand 
manner : 

"I  left  a  letter,  Hilda.    On  the  chair  by  the  door." 

"Thanks,"  said  Hilda,  "I  found  it." 

rAgain  they  were  silent.  Hilda  did  not  raise  her  eyes. 
She  finished  dressing  the  baby  and  laid  her  away  in  the 
basket.  Then  she  walked  to  the  window,  opened  the  case- 
ment, and  stepped  out  on  the  narrow  balcony,  leaning  there 
for  a  little  time,  nervously  tapping  the  iron  railing  with  a 
tense  finger.  Her  mind  was  up  and  alert  now ;  her  thoughts 
were  racing. 

Adele  was,  of  course,  the  bearer  of  bad  news — so  bad  that 
the  girl  was  downright  unequal  to  the  task  of  delivering  her 
message.  Hilda  decided  to  take  the  situation  in  her  own 
hands.  That,  after  all,  was  the  best  way  to  meet  disasters. 

Adele  had  sunk  on  a  chair. 

"I  take  it  that  you  saw  Juliette,"  said  Hilda,  kindly  and 
briskly. 

318 


THE   HONEY   BEE  319 

rAdele  nodded ;  then  said : 

"We  had  to  go  twice.  When  we  were  there  earlier  in  the 
afternoon  they  told  us  to  come  back  at  five.  Wre  looked  in 
here  after  the  first  trip,  but  you  were  out  with  the  baby." 

"Yes,"  remarked  Hilda,  "I  wheeled  her  over  to  the 
Champs  Elysees."  Then,  after  a  pause  of  only  a  moment, 
she  added :  "Tell  me  just  what  happened,  Adele." 

Adele's  eyes  overflowed  now.  She  pressed  her  handker- 
chief to  eyes  and  nose. 

"You  might  as  well  let  me  have  it,  Adele,"  said  Hilda, 
more  gently.  "I  am  ready  for  it,  whatever  it  is." 

Adele  looked  up.  She  seemed  to  be  steadied  by  the 
strength  of  the  woman  before  her.  "Well,  Hilda,"  she  be- 
gan, "we  went  in  and  sat  with  Juliette.  Blink  told  her  how 
wonderfully  you  have  taken  care  of  baby.  And  I  told  her, 
too.  That  made  her  very  happy.  But  then  Blink  began 
asking  her  about  her  plans  after  she  gets  well,  and  how 
she'd  feel  about  baby  having  a  fine  home  and  being  brought 
up  so — " 

Adele  broke  down  here ;  but  not  with  a  display  of  emo- 
tion— quite  silently,  in  fact.  She  sat  very  still,  looking 
straight  at  Hilda,  her  lips  pressed  together,  the  tears  roll- 
ing unheeded  down  her  cheeks. 

"And  she  wouldn't  consent,"  Hilda  finished  for  her. 

Adele  did  not  reply  at  once,  merely  continued  the  silent 
struggle  to  control  her  emotions;  then,  after  a  few  mo- 
ments, continued:  "I  guess  we've  all  come  to  see  it  too 
much  in  our  own  way,  Hilda.  It  sounded  all  right  to  me, 
the  way  Blink  was  putting  it,  but  as  soon  as  she  saw  what 
he  was  driving  at  she  got  dreadfully  stirred  up.  You  know 
how  quick  and  excitable  these  French  girls  are  sometimes." 

"Yes,"  said  Hilda  soothingly,  "I  know." 

"Well,  she  got  like  that.    Her  nerves  have  been  terribly 


320  THE   HONEY   BEE 

upset  anyway,  and  I  guess  we  didn't  any  of  us  realize  what 
a  shock  it  would  be  to  her — the  idea  of  giving  up  her  baby. 
She  was  hysterical.  The  doctor  had  to  come  in,  and  one  of 
the  nurses.  And  she  wouldn't  be  quiet  until  we,  both  of  us, 
promised  to  help  her  and  see  that  everything  was  fixed  all 
right." 

"How  is  it  to  be  fixed  ?"  asked  Hilda. 

Adele  found  difficulty  in  replying. 

"She  wants  the  baby  right  back,  evidently,"  Hilda  added. 

Adele  nodded.  Her  lips  were  compressed  again,  and  the 
tears  were  falling.  Suddenly  she  broke  out : 

"She's  coming  herself — in  the  morning    .     .     . " 

"To  take  baby  away?" 

Adele  nodded  again. 

"But  how  can  she  ?    Is  she  well  enough  ?" 

"We  don't  think  so,  Blink  and  I.  Blink  talked  it  over 
with  the  doctor  afterward,  and  he  said  he'd  have  to  let  her. 
It  might  give  her  a  relapse,  but  she'd  surely  break  down 
again  now  if  she  didn't  do  it.  She's  so  worked  up  over  it, 
you  see.  So  Blink  said  he'd  bring  here  in  a  taxi,  and  one 
of  the  nurses  could  come." 

Hilda  thought  this  over,  deliberately. 

"She'll  take  her  into  the  hospital  then  ?" 

Adele  nodded. 

Hilda's  eyes  roved  slowly  about  the  room,  taking  account 
of  stock.  "We  can  put  baby  into  the  taxi  easily  enough," 
she  mused,  "basket  and  all.  And  there'll  be  room  for  all 
her  clothes  and  things,  I  imagine.  Maybe  she  won't  need 
the  ice-box  and  bathtub  and  those  things  at  the  hospital. 
Do  you  suppose  Juliette  has  a  room  where  we  could  send 
them?" 

Adele's  eyes  were  drying.  She  was  staring  at  Hilda,  in  a 
rather  bewildered  fashion.  "Are  you  going  to  do  that, 


THE   HONEY   BEE  321 

Hilda?"  she  said  now.  "Send  all  these  things  you've 
bought?" 

"Of  course,  child,"  said  Hilda. 

"Why,  that's  wonderful—" 

"Nonsense !  They're  baby's  things,  not  yours  or  mine. 
;We  don't  want  her  to  be  less  comfortable  because  we  can't 
have  her  with  us." 

"Xo,"  said  Adele,  more  slowly,  "that's  so,  of  course." 

"I'm  not  sure,"  observed  Hilda,  "that  I  oughtn't  to  go 
right  over  there  myself  and  reassure  her.  She  must  be  in 
a  dreadful  state  of  nerves  by  now.  And  she'll  have  a  bad 
night.  Why,  she  must  be  thinking  of  me  as  a  monster." 

"It  was  sort  o'  hard  to  make  her  understand.    But — " 

"You  see,  Adele,  while  I  don't  know  Juliette,  I'll  ven- 
ture, from  what  you  have  told  me,  that  she  won't  take  any 
such  care  of  baby  as  we  have." 

"I  should  say  she  wouldn't !"  nmrmured  Adele,  ruefully. 

"She'll  be  pretty  irregular,  won't  she  ?  Eather  a  temper- 
amental business,  take  it  all  arouad." 

"I  guess  it  will  be,  Hilda," 

"And  doubtless  she  is  quite  igriorant — about  this  sort  of 
thing,  I  mean." 

"She  doesn't  know  much  aboui  babies,"  said  Adele. 

Hilda  mused  on.  "We've  just  got  to  do  the  best  we  can, 
I  suppose.  But  it  looks  as  if  our  job  now  is  to  make  every 
provision  we  can  for  baby.  I'll  teU  you  what,  Adele — try 
to  have  an  English-speaking  nurse  came  with  her  to-mor- 
row. Will  you?  .  .  .  Yes,  that  will  help  a  little.  I 
can  show  her  how  we  make  the  food.  You  see,  they 
could  wreck  her  digestion  in  three  days.  And  just  think 
how  we  had  to  work  to  find  the  right  foo^.*' 

"I  know,"  murmured  Adele.    "I  know.M 

"How  about  Juliette  ?  Is  she  hard  to  manage  ordinarily  ? 


322  THE   HONEY   BEE 

Would  she  let  you  run  in  and  out  for  a  week  or  so,  until  she 
gets  used  to  baby's  ways  ?" 

"I  think  she  would,"  replied  Adele. 

"Well,  that  will  help  a  little  more." 

Hilda  stood,  deep  in  thought,  pressing  a  firm  forefinger 
against  her  lips. 

"No,  I  won't  try  to  go  to  the  hospital,"  she  said.  "But  I 
really  think  you  and  Blink  had  better  go  back  this  evening. 
We  want  to  do  everything  we  can  to  reassure  her  and  steady 
her.  You  can  tell  her  that  I  will  have  everything  ready 
when  she  comes,  in  the  morning.  .  .  .  Let's  see — 
this  is  Wednesday,  isn't  it.  To-morrow  will  be  Thursday." 
She  said  this  last  absently,  as  if  talking  to  herself. 

"Yes,"  said  Adele,  "to-morrow's  Thursday.  .  .  .  We 
can  go  over,  of  course,  to-night.  You're  awfully  good  about 
it,  Hilda — thinking  of  Juliette  that  way." 

"No,"  replied  Hilda,  thoughtfully,  "I'm  not  good  about 
it.  I  really  don't  believe  I  am  thinking  of  her.  I'm  think- 
ing of  baby.  We've  got  to  steady  Juliette  all  we  can,  for 
baby's  sake.  It  will  be  bad  enough,  even  with  Juliette  quite 
herself.  For  she  will  never  follow  our  careful  schedule. 
Never  in  the  world !" 

"I  don't  know,"  mused  Adele.  "She  might.  She'll  be 
very  devoted — I'm  sure  of  that." 

Hilda  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

When  Adele  had  returned  to  her  own  room  it  occurred  to 
Hilda  that  the  newly  engaged  couple  might  feel  that  she 
ought  to  dine  with  them.  In  order  to  avoid  this,  she  slipped 
quietly  down-stairs,  merely  asking  Adele,  through  the  door- 
way, if  she  would  keep  an  eye  and  an  ear  on  the  baby  for  a 
little  while.  Seated  alone,  in  a  corner  of  the  small  dining 
room,  she  ate  sparingly  of  the  table  d'hote  dinner. 


THE   HOKEY   BEE  323 

She  was  not  hungry.  The  food  almost  repelled  her. 
But  she  felt  that  she  ought  to  eat  something,  if  only  to  fit 
herself  for  the  crisis  into  which  she  now  found  herself 
wholly  drawn. 

There  was  a  sort  of  relief  in  the  very  intensity  of  this 
crisis.  The  time  for  action  had  come ;  and,  as  she  knew,  in 
action  she  was  at  her  best.  She  would  carry  this  little  situ- 
ation through  now  without  any  great  difficulty.  She  would 
be  quite  calm — outwardly,  at  least.  She  would  feel  a  deep 
pride  in  having  everything  ready  in  the  morning,  and  in 
reassuring  Juliette.  If  she  had  been  guilty  of  an  error  of 
judgment,  if  she  had  permitted  these  deep  feelings  that  had 
so  stirred  her  of  late  to  grow  into  a  desire  so  intense  that  it 
had  quite  clouded  her  reason — well,  now  was  the  time  for 
accepting  the  facts,  falling  back  on  her  reason,  and  acting 
like  the  strong  efficient  woman  she  knew  herself  to  be. 

There  were  inner  voices,  of  course,  hinting  shrewdly  that 
the  real  shock  of  this  experience  would  come  later — after 
the  baby  had  gone !  When  there  was  nothing  to  do. 

"What  on  earth  could  she  do ! 

She  wondered,  quite  coolly,  at  this  ruthless  will  in  her 
which  had,  years  ago,  conquered  an  all  but  overpowering 
emotional  pull  upon  her  and  driven  her  away  from  the 
man  she  frankly  loved;  which  had  carried  her,  with  that 
same  hard  drive,  through  her  years  of  business  success; 
which  had  made  her  dispose  of  Blink  just  when,  and  just 
because,  she  was  dangerously  fond  of  him !  and  which  now 
was  rescuing  her  from  any  weak  desire  to  hold  the  baby 
close  in  her  life. 

There  would  be  a  shock.  There  would  be  bad  moments, 
very  bad  moments.  Not  to-night,  perhaps ;  but  during  the 
long  nights  to  come,  when  there  would  be  no  helpless  baby 
in  a  basket  close  by  her  bed,  no  baby  to  whimper  for  its  bot- 


324  THE   HONEY   BEE 

tie,  no  baby  to  demand  the  hundred  and  one  habitual  little 
tender  acts,  each  one  of  which  had  become  a  separate  and 
strong  pull  upon  the  strings  of  her  heart. 

Her  thoughts  wandered  to  Blink.  She  wondered  if  she 
would  have  had  the  strength  to  give  him  up  had  she  known 
that  the  baby  was  to  be  taken  abruptly  away  ...  on' 
the  whole,  she  was  inclined  to  answer  this  question  in  the 
affirmative.  The  temptation  would  have  been  greater;  but 
the  same  difficulties  would  have  been  there.  The  reasons 
would  have  been  the  same.  She  wanted  Blink  now.  She 
wanted  something  of  her  own,  all  her  own ;  something  hu- 
man and  tender.  She  wanted  warmth.  All  her  life  she 
had  been  thrusting  it  away.  It  was  not  right — it  was  not 
fair.  .  .  . 

Sitting  there  alone,  in  the  corner  of  the  little  dining 
room,  she  shrugged  her  shoulders;  then  looked  up  quickly 
to  see  if  she  had  been  observed.  There  were  only  a  few 
persons  in  the  room;  and  all  were  soberly  busy  over  their 
food,  as  bourgeois  folk  everywhere  are  at  meal  time.  The 
waiter  was  looking  out  the  window  into  the  dingy  court- 
yard. She  was  quite  alone,  quite  unobserved — alone  as 
one  can  be  alone  only  in  a  great,  gay,  busy  city.  She  felt 
her  eyes  growing  suddenly  wet.  She  laid  her  napkin  on 
the  table,  pushed  back  her  chair,  and  walked  deliberately; 
out  of  the  room  and  up  the  stairs.  She  held  her  head  up 
rather  stiffly.  Her  lips  were  pressed  firmly  together.  And 
it  seemed  to  her,  mounting  the  stairs,  in  one  of  those 
swift  excursions  of  thought  that  come  when  the  nerves  are 
tense  and  the  pulse  high,  an  interesting  fact  that  all 
her  faculties  were — in  the  language  of  the  store — on  the 
job.  Her  head  was  clear,  her  will  strong.  She  could  think 
keenly  and  quickly.  She  had  felt  much  of  this  sense  of 
power  on  the  day  she  straightened  out  Blink's  life  for  him; 


THE   HONEY   BEE  325 

a  little  of  it  during  her  talk  with  Stanley  Aitcheson,  weeks 
and  weeks  ago,  at  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix.  But  on  neither  of 
these  occasions  had  she  been  strong  as  she  was  strong  to- 
night. 

There  was  a  thrill  in  the  thought.  It  appeared  to  indi- 
cate that  the  old  machine  was  gradually  corning  around 
into  shape.  At  this  rate  she  would  soon  be  fit  for  work 
again,  for  real  work.  Nothing  less,  nothing  else,  indeed, 
ehe  thought  now,  could  save  her  from  .  .  .  she  did  not 
know  what. 

It  seemed  odd  to  her  that  the  queer  disturbing  experi- 
ences she  had  been  passing  through  should  in  some  part 
do  for  her  what  a  long  vacation  is  supposed  to  do.  There 
had  not  been  in  it  much  of  what  is  usually  regarded  as 
rest.  But  she  had  already  learned  to  sleep  soundly.  She 
had  had  to  learn  that,  during  the  strain  of  the  baby's  ill- 
ness. She  had  acquired  the  habit  of  sleeping  when  she 
could — deeply  and  gratefully.  And  her  head  had  not  ached 
nearly  so  much  of  late.  In  fact,  the  headache  she  had  felt 
an  hour  earlier  had  come  as  a  real  surprise  to  her. 

Adele  was  sitting  by  the  baby,  with  her  hat  on.  She 
said  that  there  would  be  no  chance  of  seeing  Juliette  again 
if  they  were  to  go  late  in  the  evening;  so  they  had  decided 
to  leave  at  once,  she  and  Blink,  picking  up  a  bite  to  eat 
on  their  way  back.  Anyway,  she  added,  rising,  they  had 
lunched  late  and  heartily.  She  glanced  down  at  her  slim 
figure,  smoothing  her  coat  over  the  hips.  "If  Blink  doesn't 
stop  making  me  eat  so  much,"  she  said,  "I'll  be  getting 
terribly  fat." 

Adele's  outer  door  opened  then,  and  closed  softly.  Hilda 
could  hear  Blink's  light  step  crossing  the  next  room.  Near 
the  door  it  stopped,  as  if  he  were  hesitating.  Doubtless 
he  was  coming  in.  Hilda  felt  a  sudden  little  wave  of  sheer 


326  THE   HONEY   BEE 

feeling  rushing  over  her  thoughts.  She  held  her  breatK 
an  instant,  then  mentally  braced  herself. 

He  appeared  in  the  doorway.  She  found  herself  looking 
again  at  the  solid  face  with  the  perceptible  twist  in  the 
nose,  the  strong  bunches  of  muscle  at  the  sides  of  the  jaw, 
the  shock  of  brown  hair,  the  steady  blue  eyes.  She  saw; 
again,  too,  the  one  curious  eyelid,  that  she  had  once  de- 
scribed to  herself  with  the  adjective  "Gothic."  During  her 
weeks  of  close  intimacy  with  him  she  had  grown  so  accus- 
tomed to  his  appearance  that  this  eyelid  had  ceased  to  be, 
in  her  eyes,  a  prominent  detail  in  his  appearance.  But 
now  she  saw  it  again. 

"Come  in/'  she  said. 

The  pleasant  naturalness  of  her  own  voice  surprised  her. 
For  another  wave  of  emotion  was  sweeping  over  her.  She 
was  conscious,  quite  suddenly,  of  disturbing  physical  sen- 
sations. It  came  to  her,  as  she  sat  there,  smiling  casually 
at  the  man  who  had  so  nearly  swept  her  out  of  the  logical 
course  of  her  life,  that  these  inner  pressures  might,  at  the 
slightest  further  encouragement,  become  insistent — over- 
powering, even.  And,  in  a  quick  flash  of  memory,  she 
recalled  the  little  speech  she  had  made  to  Blink  himself— 
"To  think  about  love  means  that  you  are  going  to  think 
more  about  love."  To  which  impromptu  aphorism  he  had 
replied,  in  his  blunt  way,  "Oh,  of  course — if  you  start, 
something  .  .  ." 

He  took  command  of  the  situation  now  quite  in  his  old 
comfortable  manner. 

"We're  going  over  there  now,  Hilda.  I  think  you're 
right  about  its  being  the  thing  to  do." 

It  was  good  of  him  to  put  aside  his  self -consciousness  in 
this  way.  For  all  three  of  them,  each  after  his  own 
manner,  had  been  distinctly  self-conscious.  Hilda  knew 


THE   HONEY  BEE  327 

that  there  was  a  touch  of  fire  on  each  of  her  cheeks  at 
this  moment. 

He  added,  very  simply  and  directly — "How  are  you  feel- 
ing, Hilda?" 

"Xever  better,"  said  she  promptly ;  if  anything,  a  thought 
too  promptly. 

But  he  Trent  on,  as  naturally  as  before — "That's  good. 
I'm  sorry  things  aren't  going  the  way  we  thought.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,"  said  Hilda,  with  an  impatient  little  wave  of  her 
hand,  "we  can't  help  that !" 

"Xo,  we  can't  help  it.  "Well" — he  extended  his  hand — 
"I  like  the  way  you're  taking  it,  Hilda.  Though  I  knew 
you  would  be  like  this.  I  told  Adele  you  would." 

At  which  Adele  nodded  briskly,  with  shining  eyes. 

The  situation  was  becoming  more  difficult. 

Hilda  took  his  hand,  gripped  it  honestly. 

"Thanks,  Blink,"  she  said.  "And  I  haven't  had  the 
chance  to  wish  you  good  luck  before  now." 

Adele  was  moving  toward  the  door.  Blink's  fist  tight- 
ened about  her  hand. 

"Thank  you,  Hilda,"  he  replied.  "And  good  luck  to 
you !  Good-by  now.  We'll  see  you  later." 

When  they  had  gone,  Hilda  walked  slowly  to  the  window 
and  looked  out  after  them  until  they  disappeared  around 
the  corner  into  the  Eue  Tronchet.  Rather  absently  she  let 
1  her  right  hand  hang  limp  from  the  wrist  and  shook  it  a 
little.  Now  she  came  in  under  the  light  and  looked  at  her 
hand.  It  was  still  white  where  his  iron  fist  had  compressed 
it.  He  had  really  hurt  her.  She  almost  wondered  that  no 
bones  were  broken.  She  moved  the  fingers,  one  by  one; 
shook  the  hand  again ;  then  let  it  drop. 

Her  cheeks  were  still  touched  with  fire.  She  had  not 
minded  the  pain.  Indeed  she  had  welcomed  it.  The  real- 


328  THE   HONE  I    BEE 

ization  of  this  fact  now  frightened  her  a  little.     She  had 
never  before  felt  quite  like  this. 

She  stood  there,  brooding,  for  some  little  time.  Then, 
for  a  quarter-hour,  the  baby  demanded  her  attention. 
After  which  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  had  meant  to  write 
that  letter  to  Harris  Doreyn.  On  thinking  it  over,  how-, 
ever,  she  decided  to  postpone  this  task  until  the  morrow. 
She  indulged  in  a  little  mental  arithmetic.  To-morrow 
would  be  Thursday — he  was  to  sail  on  Saturday — Thurs- 
day to  Saturday  would  be  ample  time  in  which  to  get  a 
letter  from  Paris  to  Liverpool.  Why,  even  if  she  were  not 
to  post  the  letter  before  Thursday  evening,  it  would  doubt- 
less be  at  Liverpool  before  Friday  noon,  and  of  course  there 
would  be  a  Saturday  mail  before  the  ship  sailed,  as  well. 

Just  to  make  certain  that  he  should  hear  from  her — 
and  she  must  not  fail  in  that ! — she  could  send  a  telegram 
besides.  Yes,  she  would  do  that.  .  .  .  All  this,  of  course, 
in  case  she  should  not  write  the  letter  to-night.  And  an 
inner  voice,  speaking  out  of  the  confusion  of  feelings  within 
her,  told  her  that  she  was  not  going  to  write  it  to-night. 

In  that  matter,  the  decision  did  not  rest  with  her.  There 
was  much  to  do  in  getting  all  baby's  things  ready  for  the 
morning.  She  set  about  this  task  now,  glad  of  the  oppor- 
tunity to  work  with  her  hands.  The  baby's  clothes  she 
packed  in  her  own  suit-case.  She  decided  to  give  this  to 
Juliette.  The  other  things  she  made  up  in  bundles,  call- 
ing on  the  floor  boy  to  bring  her  sheets  of  wrapping  paper 
and  twine.  It  was  astonishing  to  find  how  many  little  pos- 
sessions the  baby  had.  The  room  was  filled  with  them — 
they  were  in  every  bureau  drawer,  they  rested  on  mantel, 
bureau  and  window-sill,  they  hung  from  the  backs  of  chairs, 
from  the  steam  radiator  and  towel  rack,  over  the  foot  of  the 


THE    HOXEY   BEE  329 

bed ;  they  lay  on  the  shelves  of  the  wardrobe.  She  gathered 
everything  up,  arranging  the  different  kinds  of  articles  in 
heaps  on  the  bed  and  on  chairs.  Her  eyes  were  dry;  but 
the  color  was  still  high  in  her  cheeks. 

She  was  hardly  more  than  started  at  this,  it  seemed, 
when  Adele  and  Blink  returned.  Both  wished  to  help ;  but 
she  did  not  encourage  them  to  stay,  and  they  did  not  press. 
They  brought  good  reports  of  Juliette.  She  had  quieted 
down  greatly,  and  already  hailed  the  rich  American  lady 
as  her  dearest  benefactor.  So  much  for  that.  Adele  and 
Blink  had  succeeded,  at  least,  in  their  errand. 

It  occurred  to  her  now  that  in  her  plans  for  the  moving 
she  had  quite  forgotten  the  perambulator.  She  recalled 
Adele's  concern  over  the  cost  of  it,  and  her  lips  twisted  into 
a  smile  that  quickly  faded.  She  decided  to  have  a  boy 
wheel  it  over  to  the  hospital  in  the  morning. 

Adele  finally  closed  her  door.  Hilda  was  vaguely  con- 
scious that  she  and  Blink  were  visiting  in  the  next  room 
until  late. 

Toward  midnight  Adele  tapped  at  the  door  and  looked 
in;  but  observing  Hilda's  preoccupation,  merely  said  good 
night  and  went  to  bed.  Hilda  worked  for  a  long  time 
after  that. 

At  about  two  o'clock,  after  carefully  considering  the 
problem  of  transporting  a  day's  supply  of  food  to  the  hos- 
jpital,  she  decided  to  make  it  up  the  first  thing  in  the  morn- 
ing with  the  new  milk,  and  then  insist  on  sending  the  tin 
ice-box  along  in  the  taxi.  She  could  pack  the  bottles,  in 
their  wire  frame,  so  that  they  would  not  shake  about.  If 
necessary  she  would  make  Blink  carry  the  box  on  his  knees. 

Shortly  after  this  she  went  to  bed,  thinking  she  was  per- 
haps tired  enough  to  sleep.  But  sleep  did  not  come. 


330  THE    HONEY   BEE 

She  got  up  after  a  time,  took  Doreyn's  letter  from  jie 
bureau,  and  read  it  all  through  again,  standing  under  the 
dim  night  light. 

Certain  phrases,  here  and  there,  stood  out.  Those  two 
or  three  flashing  sentences  about  virtue,  about  what  he  so 
oddly  termed  "technical  virtue,"  in  particular.  There  was 
a  touch  of  the  old  bitterness  in  these  sentences,  a  distinct 
note  of  reproach — directed  at  herself.  She  skimmed  the 
entire  letter  again  before  returning  to  these  sentences. 
Taking  it  all  together,  it  was  not  a  bitter  letter.  There  was 
sweetness  in  it,  and  much  humility,  and  that  sense  of  sober- 
ing age.  She  was  inclined  to  believe  that  he  had  been  un- 
aware of  the  sting  in  those  phrases  when  he  wrote  them. 
It  was  a  lingering  remnant  of  the  old  fire  flashing  out 
at  her. 

She  went  back  to  bed,  and  lay  there,  very  still,  thinking 
this  over.  She  did  not  resent  it.  Rather,  she  was  inter- 
ested— or  the  cool  thinking  part  of  herself  was  interested — 
in  his  evident  deep  feeling  on  this  difficult  subject.  She 
was  glad  that  he  still  had  that  deep  feeling,  and  she  won- 
dered if  he  was  right  about  it.  Had  there  not  been,  after 
all,  a  good  deal  of  cowardice  in  her  heart  when  she  so  des- 
perately ran  away  from  him?  And  something  of  that 
"hard  practical  self-interest"  ? 

He  had  given,  in  those  few  strikingly  unorthodox  sen- 
tences, a  strong  new  direction  to  her  thinking.  More  and 
more,  as  the  early  morning  hours  wore  along,  she  felt  the 
suffering  that  he  had  gone  through  because  of  her — the 
years  upon  years  of  suffering.  More  and  more  she  was 
catching  the  significance  in  his  extraordinary  pursuit  of 
her.  Through  all  his  successes  he  had  never  forgotten  her. 
He  had  not  even  resented  her.  He  had  merely  lived  for  his 
duty  until  what  he  so  oddly  called  "that  inner  double  life" 


THE   HOXEY   BEE  331 

became  a  heavier  burden  than  even  his  strong  spirit  could 
carry  further.  And  then  he  had  tried  to  find  her.  But 
first  he  had  told  his  wife  the  truth. 

She  did  not  speculate  now  on  the  puzzling  moral  prob- 
lems involved.  The  fact  that  in  those  dark  days  of  their 
love  neither  had  had  any  other  solution  than  the  one  they 
had  followed,  now  bore  no  emphasis  in  her  thoughts.  She 
was  thinking  of  him  as  a  broken  ill  man.  She  constructed 
mental  pictures  of  him  there  in  London,  during  these  last 
few  weeks,  seriously  ill  and  quite  alone.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  should  have  been  there,  nursing  him,  bringing  into 
his  life  some  late  touches  of  the  happiness  her  cowardice 
and  selfishness  had  denied  him.  She  wondered  if  he  was 
very  gray  now. 

To  this  extreme  of  self-reproach  had  her  unleashed  emo- 
tions brought  her.  From  various  angles  she  viewed  herself, 
and  what  she  saw  led  her  thoughts  always  to  those  words 
of  his — cowardice  and  self-interest — hard  practical  self- 
interest. 

She  asked  herself  if  any  words  ever  coined  could  more 
accurately  explain  Hilda  Wilson — the  rather  beautiful, 
admittedly  successful  Hilda  Wilson.  Here  she  was,  at 
thirty-two,  a  woman  who  had  always  taken  and  never  given, 
a  woman  who  had  produced  nothing  excepting  a  sufficient 
income  to  insure  her  own  comfort,  whose  mind  had  been 
on  an  inhuman  sort  of  self-advancement  in  the  world  of 
men. 

So  strong  was  this  mood  that  the  few  inner  protests  that 
rose  were  swept  instantly  aside.  It  was  nothing  that  she 
had  helped  in  her  mother's  support  and  in  the  education 
of  the  children.  She  could  afford  it.  And  at  that,  her 
pride  alone,  her  sensitiveness  to  unpleasant  criticism,  would 
easily  account  for  these  efforts. 


332  THE    IIOXEY   BEE 

A  new  thought  slipped  in  now — perhaps  the  most  pain- 
ful of  all.  She  had  resented  the  constant  watchful  suspi- 
cion of  the  business  world  as  directed  toward  an  attractive 
single  woman  like  herself.  What,  now,  if  the  business 
world  were  instinctively  right!  Certainly  her  attractive- 
ness was  a  factor  in  her  success.  Had  she  not  employed 
it,  all  the  time,  subtly  and  indirectly,  to  advance  herself? 
And  had  she  not  always,  with  the  utmost  adroitness,  saved 
herself  from  any  sort  of  payment  in  kind  ?  "Was  she  a  bet- 
ter woman,  in  any  remotest  sense,  merely  because  she  was 
smart  enough  to  advance  herself  without  payment  ?  .  .  . 
After  all,  with  all  their  shortcomings,  the  men  she  knew 
of  her  own  age  were  married,  were  producing  children,  and 
were  working  to  provide  for  the  families  they  had  brought 
into  the  world.  While  Hilda  Wilson  was  producing  noth- 
ing !  She  had  even  tried  to  take  for  her  own  a  child  that 
had  not  come  into  the  world  through  the  wearying  travail 
of  her  own  body  and  soul — and  this  for  a  selfish  gratifica- 
tion, because  she  had  become  conscious  of  a  great  unsatis- 
fied want  within  herself.  And  because  she  was,  she  had 
been,  altogether  too  selfish  to  pay  the  price  of  marriage. 
She  had  come  to  prize  her  independence  too  highly  for 
that. 

That  was  it,  she  told  herself — she  had  always  taken  and 

f 
never  given. 

There  was  something  about  men,  and  about  married  * 
women,  that  she  had  never  understood.  There  was  some- 
thing in  their  experience  of  life  that  was  not  in  her  experi- 
ence. In  some  baffling  sense  she  found  herself  outside  of 
life — of  actual,  ordinary  human  life.  .  .  .  She  won- 
dered, with  a  momentary  swelling  of  bitterness,  if  these 
searching,  disturbing  experiences  of  hers  here  in  Paris  had 
not  been  designed  by  some  grim  superbeing  as  a  mockery, 


THE   HONEY   BEE  333 

a  taunt,  to  her,  as  a  heartbreaking  illumination  of  her  piti- 
fully empty  life.  She  had  almost  known  love ;  she  had  al- 
most known  a  sort  of  motherhood.  In  each  instance  she 
had  been  wilful.  In  each  she  had  now  completely,  as  she 
phrased  it,  "lost  out."  Nothing  was  left  but  a  sad  letter 
from  a  man  whose  life — whose  love  life,  at  least — she  had 
wrecked.  Even  now,  because  of  her — her  "hard  practical 
self-interest" — he  was  turning  away  from  the  family  he 
had  reared  to  face  life  and,  perhaps,  death — alone.  It  was 
even  too  late  to  help  him,. 

She  told  herself  that  she  was  nearly  well  again.  She 
would  return  home  soon,  and  resume  her  work.  That,  at 
least,  remained  to  her.  .  .  .  But  then  her  heart  sank. 
In  the  one  stronghold  of  life,  her  work,  they  had  wrecked 
her  good  name.  Or  she  herself,  through  her  own  wilful- 
ness,  had  wrecked  it. 

She  tried  to  tell  herself,  now,  that  she  would  step  in 
there,  head  high,  and  face  them  all.  But  her  heart  was 
not  in  this  thought.  She  would  need  courage,  supreme 
faith  in  herself,  in  order  to  make  any  such  fight  as  that. 

There  were  moments,  a  little  later,  when  she  even  thought 
wildly  of  recalling  Blink  into  her  life.  Blink,  in  his 
genuine,  not  over-enlightened  way,  had  loved  her.  She 
would  take  him  back.  She  would  give  herself  to  him. 
She  would  resolutely  throw  behind  her  the  old  selfish  life. 
'  She  would  make  a  home  for  him.  She  would  devote  her- 
self to  him  in  a  penitential  orgy  of  self-sacrifice.  She 
would  stop  taking,  stop  it  forever.  She  would  give,  give, 
give !  She  would  bear  children  for  him ! 

At  this  thought  rose  the  fluttering  question  that  had 
arisen  once  or  twice  before — Was  she  too  old  to  bear 
children  ? 

All  this  brought  its  own  reaction,  of  course.     It  was 


334  THE   HONEY   BEE 

painful  to  realize  that  even  in  her  moment  of  greatest  desire 
to  sacrifice  herself  she  was  really  planning  only  to  gratify 
herself  by  sacrificing  Adele.  More  than  which,  her  saner 
self  knew  well  enough  that  her  settled  habits  were  the 
strongest  part  of  what  she  had  built,  and  that  these  were 
not  to  be  overthrown  in  a  moment,  with  the  help  of  nothing  <v 
better  than  a  petulant  outburst. 

No,  she  had  been  really  sound  in  giving  Blink  up.  In  a 
way,  that  was  the  saddest  aspect  of  it.  She  had  refused 
him,  at  the  last,  as  the  result  of  a  quick  instinctive  deci- 
sion. It  had  been  instinctive.  She  couldn't  conceivably 
have  married  him.  It  was  a  job  for  which  she  was  dis- 
tinctly not  fitted.  She  couldn't  have  made  good  at  it. 

So  her  thoughts  raced  until  the  first  faint  rose-pink  of 
dawn  touched  the  windows  across  the  street. 

She  tried  to  pray  then,  gropingly. 


XXIV 

HILDA  COMES  TO  A  BXIDGE,  AND  CROSSES  IT 

(HOETLY  after  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  they  brought 
Juliette — Blink  and  a  nurse.     Hilda  received  them, 
calmly. 

It  gave  her  a  start  to  find  that  Juliette  was  beautiful — * 
pitifully  thin,  very  white,  but  beautiful — this  girl  and 
woman  who  was  so  curiously  a  rival,  who  possessed  rights 
in  the  smiling  dimpled  morsel  of  life  in  the  dainty  basket. 
She  was  a  little  thing,  nervous,  eager,  swift  and  light  of 
movement.  Illness  could  not  hide  her  grace.  Her  skin  was 
soft  and  fine  as  the  baby's  own.  Her  eyes,  now  a  thought 
sunken,  were  big,  brown,  and  deep  with  burning  ques- 
tions of  life. 

She  had  no  English ;  but  she  smiled  a  little,  with  droop- 
ing ej^es,  when  Hilda  took  her  hand  and  led  her  to  the 
basket. 

Here  she  sank  to  her  knees.  The  tears  came  suddenly. 
She  lifted  the  baby,  coverings  and  all,  and  cuddled  it  close, 
swaying  from  side  to  side  and  crooning  soft  messages  into 
the  nearest  rosy  ear. 

Blink  glanced  inquiringly  at  Hilda,  then  slipped  into 
Adele's  room.  But  Hilda  called  him  back. 

"She  doesn't  look  very  strong,  Blink,"  said  Hilda.  <rWe 
had  better  carry  it  right  through  now.  There  is  no  good 
in  waiting.  Ask  her  if  she  wants  to  hold  baby  herself,  OP 
move  her  in  the  basket." 

335 


336  THE   HONEY   BEE 

Blink  put  the  question  in  French. 

Juliette  looked  up,  smiling  suddenly  through  wild  tears, 
and  answered  brokenly. 

Blink,  very  serious,  shook  his  head  and  spoke  again. 
f      She  came  to  her  feet  at  this,  with  a  light  spring.     She 
I  was  extraordinarily  graceful.     She  sprang  back,  still  smil- 
ing, actually  a  twinkle  in  her  eyes;  then  shook  her  head, 
protesting  volubly. 

Blink  turned  to  Hilda,  saying  only — 

"She  says  she  will  carry  the  baby  herself."  He  looked 
about  the  room. 

Hilda  had  piled  all  the  parcels  on  and  about  her  suit- 
case, by  the  door.  Blink's  eyes  rested  on  them. 

"Is  that  all  to  go?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Hilda.  "You  can  get  it  into  the  taxi,  can't 
you?" 

"Oh,  surely,"  replied  Blink. 

They  were  most  matter-of-fact,  these  two.  But  then, 
Hilda  reflected,  they  had  never  really  been  anything  else. 
'At  that,  it  was  best. 

Blink  pressed  the  bell.  When  the  boy  responded,  he  set 
him  at  work  carrying  the  packages  down.  Even  the  heavy 
scales  were  there. 

"Tell  Juliette  that  I  want  her  to  keep  the  suit-case," 
,  said  Hilda. 
^     Blink  translated. 

Juliette's  face  flushed  pure  radiance  at  the  tall  beautiful 
woman,  who  stood  so  quietly  there  by  the  foot  of  the  bed. 
Sne  talked  a  musical  torrent. 

"And  please  explain  that  I  will  send  the  perambulator 
over  before  noon,"  Hilda  added.  She  felt  curiously  unreal, 
as  if  the  little  scene  were  being  enacted  on  a  stage  before 
her;  and  she  was  struggling  with  inner  hostility  that  would 


THE   HONEY   BEE  337 

not  down.  It  was  not  in  the  contract  that  Juliette — the 
hitherto  mythical  mother — should  prove  to  be  a  vivid  per- 
sonality of  uncontrite  and  unconquerable  charm.  .  .  . 
How  utterly  French  she  was !  .  .  . 

The  little  personality  nearly  broke  down  again,  at  this? 
last.     She  glided  across  to  Hilda,  and,  still  holding  the'., 
baby,  reached  up  and  across  to  place  an  impulsive  kiss  on 
her  cheek.    And  she  said  quick  ardent  things. 

There  was  no  escaping  it.  The  girl  had  to  have  her  little 
scene.  Hilda's  own  eyes  were  filling  now.  She  bit  her  lip. 

The  packages  were  gone ;  and  the  suit-case.  Blink,  very 
sober  indeed,  came  to  Juliette's  side  and  took  her  arm. 
The  nurse  stepped  in  from  the  corridor,  and  insisted,  with 
authority,  on  carrying  the  baby  herself.  Another  moment, 
and  they  were  gone. 

They  left  the  door  open.  Hilda  walked  slowly  over  and 
closed  it. 

She  came  to  the  window  then  and  watched  them  enter 
the  taxi.  Her  parcels  were  packed  in  close  about  the  chauf- 
feur. The  hall  boy,  his  liberal  tip  in  his  pocket,  was  already 
getting  the  perambulator  out  to  the  street. 

Then  the  taxi  rolled  away.    They  were  gone  indeed. 

Hilda  turned  and  looked  about  the  room.  It  was  amaz- 
ingly empty.  And  it  was  not  very  clean — not  attractive. 

The  tears  were  coming.  She  bit  her  lip  again,  and 
fought  them  back. 

She  came  slowly  into  the  center  of  the  room,  and  stood k 
there,  trying  to  think.    She  pressed  her  hands  to  her  tem- 
ples. 

It  was  no  use.  She  could  not  stand  it.  ...  She  went 
to  the  wardrobe  and  took  down  her  hat  and  coat.  She  hur- 
ried out,  and  went  over  to  the  boulevards. 

She  thought  she  would  walk  slowly  and  make  an  effort 


338  THE   HONEY   BEE 

to  interest  herself  in  the  picturesque  variety  of  boulevard 
life.  But  she  could  not  walk  slowly.  And  nothing  she  saw 
interested  her.  It  was  an  unreal  Paris,  this,  that  surged 
about  her  on  the  sidewalk,  that  glittered  and  glistened  in 
the  shop  windows,  that  cluttered  insanely  the  shelves  and 
hoardings  of  the  newspaper  kiosks,  that  rushed  and  rattled 
to  and  fro  on  the  broad  pavement  beyond  the  curb.  It  was 
an  empty  Paris,  a  shoddy  Paris,  a  worse  than  meretricious 
Paris. 

Because  she  had  no  consecutive  thoughts  and  no  destina- 
tion, she  walked  around  the  Grand  Hotel  and  over  to  the 
American  Express. 

There  was  no  mail  for  her. 

She  went  to  the  newspaper  table  and  found  a  "New  York 
paper.  She  might  as  well  pick  up  the  broken  strands  of 
her  old  life.  For  now  she  would  have  plenty  of  time.  But 
her  mind  seemed  incapable  of  following  her  eyes  along  the 
printed  page. 

She  found  a  chair  in  an  unoccupied  corner  by  one  of 
the  long  windows.  Here  she  made  one  more  effort  to  read 
the  paper,  only  to  give  it  up.  For  a  little  time  she  sat 
quietly  observing  the  groups  of  her  fellow  citizens  that 
came  and  went  through  the  doorway  at  the  top  of  the 
curving  double  staircase. 

These  were  unreal,  like  Paris. 

She  decided  on  a  walk.  There  was  one  occupation  that 
would  do  some  good  whether  she  enjoyed  it  or  not. 

Accordingly  she  went  out,  crossed  the  busy  street,  re- 
passed  the  Grand  Hotel,  and  entered  the  Eue  de  la  Paix. 
This  street  had  played  a  considerable  part  in  her  life  of 
recent  years.  She  thought  of  this  now,  as  she  moved  swiftly 
and  steadily  along,  and  pursed  her  lips  at  the  thought. 

She  crossed  the  Place  Vendome  and  went  on  through  the 


THE   HONEY   BEE  339 

Rue  Castiglione  to  the  Eue  de  Eivoli.  Here  she  walked 
still  more  rapidly.  She  had  quite  forgotten  that  this  route 
was  taking  her  past  the  Hotel  Continental,  where  she  was 
likely  to  be  recognized. 

She  entered  the  Garden  of  the  Tuileries,  and  walked 
about  the  paths  for  a  time.  Off  to  the  east,  beyond  trees 
that  were  budding  out  with  the  first  faint  pale  green  of 
early  spring,  she  could  see  the  towers  of  the  Louvre.  She 
walked  toward  them.  Not  since  her  first  visit  to  Paris, 
as  an  enthusiastic  young  woman,  had  she  entered  that 
building.  She  decided  to  go  in  now.  Perhaps  something 
there — a  painting  or  a  statue — would  interest  her,  occupy 
her  mind.  So  she  made  her  way  into  the  great  building, 
and  drove  herself  to  walk  persistently  through  a  mile  or 
more  of  its  passages  and  halls.  She  found  the  Venus  de 
Milo,  and  studied  it  for  a  time.  She  followed  the  crowd  to 
the  famous  La  Gioconda  of  Leonardo,  the  Mono,  Lisa 
which  had  but  recently  been  returned  after  its  strange  dis- 
appearance from  the  Louvre. 

But  the  Louvre,  like  all  Paris,  was  empty  and  unreal. 

She  lunched  late,  at  a  crowded  bakery  on  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli.  Toward  three  o'clock  she  turned  reluctantly  to- 
ward the  Hotel  de  1'Amerique.  She  must  go  back.  She 
could  not  walk  the  streets  indefinitely.  For  one  thing  she 
was  very  tired.  She  had  had  no  sleep.  And  the  strain  had 
been  great.  .  .  .  She  dreaded  returning  to  that  empty/ 
room.  She  dreaded,  too,  encountering  Adele  and  Blink. 
Her  head  was  throbbing.  She  felt  that  she  could  not  talk 
to  any  one.  Yet,  she  certainly  could  not  avoid  returning. 
All  her  own  things  were  there.  Perhaps  she  could  slip  in 
without  being  observed,  and  lie  down  for  an  hour  or  two. 
Surely  sleep  would  come  now.  There  must  be  some  natural 
end  to  the  strain  of  this  continued  wakefulness.  .  .  . 


340  THE   HONEY   BEE 

Perhaps  Adele  and  Blink  would  be  out.  Perhaps  she  was 
borrowing  trouble.  Surely  there  was  no  good  in  crossing 
bridges  before  you  came  to  them. 

Not  that  she  hadn't  come  to  a  bridge !    .    .    . 

She  slipped  into  the  room  fairly  on  tiptoe. 

But  Adele's  door  was  ajar.  Adele  was  in  there,  hum- 
ming a  French  song,  a  love  song. 

She  came  at  once  to  the  door. 

"Oh,  Hilda/'  she  exclaimed,  "where  on  earth  have  you 
been?" 

Hilda  made  some  sort  of  reply — she  hardly  knew  what. 

"I've  been  waiting  to  tell  you  about  things.  And  Blink 
stayed  as  long  as  he  could.  He  only  went  a  little  while 
ago.  And  he's  coming  back  to  take  us  to  dinner." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  child,"  said  Hilda,  at  this.  "I  couldn't 
eat  a  mouthful."  And  she  added,  "I've  only  just  had  my 
lunch." 

Adele's  face  fell.  "Oh,  but  you  must,  Hilda !  Blink  and 
I  are  counting  on  having  you  with  us." 

Hilda  thought  rapidly.  They  were  simple,  these  two, 
and  kind.  They  were  thinking  only  of  her.  And  she,  quite 
as  usual,  was  thinking  only  of  herself.  She  managed  a 
faint  smile. 

"All  right,  Adele,"  she  said  now.  "I  will  go  with  you, 
anyway.  Probably  I  can  nibble  enough  to  be  sociable." 

"Blink  says  to  make  you  take  a  nap,  Hilda." 

"Just  what  I  was  about  to  do,"  replied  Hilda,  laying 
away  her  hat  in  the  wardrobe  and  taking  off  her  coat. 

She  slipped  into  a  negligee  and  lay  down,  resisting  an 
impulse  to  close  the  door.  To  her  great  relief,  Adele  her- 
self closed  it. 

Still  sleep  did  not  come.  Hilda's  wide  eyes  studied  the 
bare  red  walls,  and  the  ceiling.  It  had  an  ornamental 


THE   HONEY   BEE  341 

plaster  border,  that  ceiling,  and  in  the  center,  above  the 
chandelier,  a  plaster-white  rose  garden.    She  studied  these. 

After  a  while  she  got  up  and  read  Doreyn's  letter,  stand- 
ing by  the  window.  She  lay  on  the  bed  and  read  parts  of 
it  again. 

She  realized,  suddenly,  that  this  was  Thursday — very 
nearly  Thursday  evening — and  she  had  not  yet  written 
her  reply. 

She  got  up  again,  drew  a  chair  to  the  table,  and  started 
framing  a  letter  in  pencil. 

She  wished  her  head  would  stop  throbbing;  it  was  so 
confusing. 

It  was  plain  enough,  as  she  sat  vacantly  there,  pressing 
the  pencil  against  her  lips,  that  she  had  no  plan,  she  did 
not  even  know  what  she  wanted  to  say.  Her  color  was  ris- 
ing. She  wrote  random  sentences  and  paragraphs,  tearing 
up  each  as  soon  as  it  was  written.  She  was  dimly  conscious 
of  the  cause  of  this  difficulty.  After  a  time,  when  she  had 
definitely  given  up  trying  to  write,  she  found  herself  think- 
ing more  clearly.  At  last  she  reached  out  for  the  little 
railway  guide,  the  "Mignon,"  that  was  never  far  from  her 
hand.  And  turning  the  pages  with  quick  firm  fingers, 
she  looked  up  the  Calais  trains. 

She  heard  Blink  return. 

When  Adele  tapped  Hilda  was  dressed  for  dinner. 

She  opened  the  door  and  smiled  her  steadiest.    Then  she  , 
wished  she  had  made  a  rather  less  assertive  appearance;1 
for  the  two  were  a  thought  bewildered  by  the  sudden 
change  in  her.    She  could  see  that. 

They  walked  over  to  the  Lucas.  Hilda,  who  was  very 
simple  and  natural  now,  led  the  way  to  the  corner  that 
she  and  Blink,  so  recently  and  yet  so  long,  long  ago,  had 
regarded  as  their  very  own. 


342  THE   HONEY   BEE 

The  two  were  still  ill  at  ease.  Adele  seemed  unable  to 
think  of  anything  to  say.  And  more  than  once  Hilda  felt 
Blink's  eyes  studying  her.  But  finally  she  managed  to 
bring  a  smile  to  Adele's  sober  face.  And  it  was  she  herself 
•who  suggested  a  theater.  She  insisted  that  they  should 
•come  as  her  guests.  They  called  for  newspapers,  and  a 
note  of  eagerness  crept  into  their  talk  as  Adele,  rather 
shyly  pleaded  for  the  new  kinemacolor  pictures.  She  had 
never  seen  them. 

Hilda  called  for  a  taxi  then,  and  took  them  to  the  Kine- 
macolor Theater  in  the  Eue  Edouard  VII. 

After  the  performance  she  carried  through,  over  Blink's 
protests,  a  little  supper  at  the  Cafe  Eiche.  The  principal 
dancer  there  knew  Adele,  and  persuaded  her  to  do  a  maxixe 
with  him.  Simply  dressed  as  she  was,  girlish  and  natural 
.in  appearance,  her  performance  appealed  to  the  sophisti- 
cated audience  as  a  novelty.  The  applause  they  gave  her 
brought  a  deep  blush  to  her  cheeks  as  she  rather  shyly  re- 
sumed her  seat  at  Blink's  side  and  slipped  her  hand  into  his. 

It  was  a  successful  evening,  on  the  whole — a  very  suc- 
cessful evening. 

Adele  slept  late  the  next  morning.  Hilda  did  not  waken 
her. 

At  ten-thirty,  however,  Hilda,  in  traveling  suit  and  hat, 
her  wardrobe  trunk  closed  and  locked,  her  satchel,  umbrella 
and  wrist-bag  lying  ready  on  the  bed,  stood  looking  at  the 
,  connecting  door.  She  was  considering  knocking,  when  she 
heard  Adele  stirring  about.  Then  she  did  knock. 

Adele's  sleep-flushed  face  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"I  didn't  want  to  wake  you,  child,"  said  Hilda,  with  a 
friendly  smile.  "But  I  really  haven't  another  minute." 

"Why — why,"  stammered  Adele,  rubbing  her  eyes — 
"You're  not  going  off — like  this — " 


THE   HONEY  BEE  343 

"Yes,  like  this,"  said  Hilda,  brightly.  "I  haven't  seen 
Blink,  Adele.  If  I  should  miss  him  altogether,  give  him 
my  good-by,  won't  you  ?  And  all  sorts  of  good  wishes  for 
you  both." 

Then  before  the  girl  could  reply,  Hilda  reached  out  to 
her,  drew  her  close  and  kissed  her.  "I  want  you  to  be 
happy,  Adele,"  she  said. 

"But — but — "     Adele  rubbed  her  eyes  again — "Where 
are  you  going?" 
•    "I  am  going,"  said  Hilda,  quietly,  "to  London." 


XXV 

HOW  A  MAN  AND  A  WOMAN  MEET  AFTER  MANY  YEARS,  AND 
MANAGE  TO  TALK  ONLY  OF  TEUNKS  AND  TAXIS  AND 
CHICKEN  AND  SALAD 

THE  Calais  train  was  crowded.  Hilda  secured  a  Beat 
by  the  window,  only  to  discover  a  moment  later  that 
she  was  in  a  smoking  compartment.  However,  as  there  had 
appeared  to  be  no  unoccupied  seats  in  any  of  the  non- 
smoking compartments,  she  decided  to  remain. 

Opposite  her  sat  a  Frenchwoman  with  a  small  baby  in 
her  arms.  On  her  own  side  were  two  young  Englishmen ; 
opposite  these,  two  middle-aged  Frenchmen  who  conversed 
volubly  and  dramatically  throughout  the  journey.  All 
four  men  smoked  intermittently.  Fortunately  the  day  was 
mild,  and  none  of  the  smokers  objected  when  Hilda  let  the 
window  down  a  little  way  at  the  top. 

The  Frenchwoman  appeared  to  have  no  English;  but 
smiled  gratefully  when  Hilda,  at  intervals,  insisted  on 
taking  the  baby. 

Hilda  held  the  little  one  as  close  to  the  window  as  she 
could,  keeping  it  well  wrapped  against  the  draft.  It  ap- 
peared not  to  occur  to  any  of  the  men  so  much  as  to  ask  if 
their  smoke  was  an  annoyance.  At  any  rate,  they  did  not 
ask.  And  Hilda  fell  to  speculating,  as  had  so  long  been 
her  habit,  about  men.  .  .  . 

And  while  her  outer  self  was  thus  engaged,  her  inner 
344 


THE   HONEY   BEE  345 

mind  was  dwelling  quite  practically  on  the  telegram  she 
felt  should  be  sent  to  Doreyn.  Here  it  was,  Friday.  His 
ship  was  to  sail  from  Liverpool  on  the  Saturday  afternoon. 
It  was  barely  possible  that  he  might  go  up  to  Liverpool  a 
day  ahead.  While  the  wording  of  the  telegram  was  plainly 
going  to  prove  rather  a  difficult  little  problem,  certainly, 
since  she  was  making  this  journey  for  the  express  purpose 
of  seeing  him,  she  must  let  him  know. 

She  framed  the  message  in  many  different  ways.  It 
was  quite  impossible  to  tell  him  what  was  in  her  heart,  of 
course — in  a  telegram.  And  it  would  not  do  to  ask  him 
to  cancel  his  passage.  That  was  a  decision  that  he  must 
make  for  himself.  At  the  great  moment  of  her  life,  when 
her  mind  and  heart  were  at  last,  after  the  hard  years,  bent 
on  giving  without  question,  bent  on  giving  everything,  she 
must  not  begin  to  ask.  She  must  be  prepared  for  any  sac- 
rifice, even  for  the  final  sacrifice  of  losing  the  opportunity 
to  give.  She  must  not  in  any  way  insure  herself.  She 
felt  this.  And  so  she  came  down  to  the  simplest  of  state- 
ments— "Arrive  London  seven  this  evening."  But  then 
it  occurred  to  her  that  he  might  altogether  miss  the  intense 
personal  feeling  that  lay  behind  the  words.  Certainly  she 
must  not  let  him  think  that  she  merely  happened  to  be 
reaching  London  in  the  course  of  a  business  journey. 
Finally  the  message  worked  out  as  follows : 

"Letter  received.  Arrive  London  seven  this  evening. 
Will  go  direct  to  your  hotel.  Hilda." 

She  sent  it  from  Calais.  And  then  insisted  on  carrying 
the  French  baby  to  the  boat  and  making  it  comfortable. 

That  was  a  curiously  disturbing  moment,  when  she  ac- 
tually wrote  the  message  down  on  the  telegraph  form.  The 
last  few  words,  that  condensed  blunt  sentence,  were  so 


346  THE   HONEY   BEE 

hard  to  write  that  she  hesitated  over  them.  They  were 
quite  crisp  and  casual.  She  had  written  phrases  not  unlike 
this  one  a  thousand  times  in  business  messages.  But  now 
Bhe  knew,  with  a  tightening  of  the  nerves  and  a  quick  rush 
of  color  to  her  cheeks,  that  she  was  deliberately  closing  the 
Moor  on  what  had  been,  until  now,  her  very  life  .  .  . 
•'When  she  did  finally  write  those  thirteen  words,  however, 
it  was  with  a  firm  hand.  And  she  gave  the  paper,  with  a 
half  louis,  to  the  telegraph  clerk,  and  quite  calmly  counted 
off  the  change  into  her  wrist-bag. 

There  was  to  be  no  turning  back  now — no  more  cow- 
ardice, no  more  "hard  practical  self-interest."  The  prob- 
lems ahead  had  an  overwhelming  look  ...  no  matter, 
she  would  do  her  best  to  meet  them  just  as  they  might 
come.  If  they  should,  at  the  last,  overwhelm  her — why, 
that  was  the  chance  that  one  must  take  in  life.  She  was 
going  straight  on. 

The  Dover-London  train  rolled  into  Victoria  station 
through  a  dusky  spring  rain.  Usually  London  depressed 
Hilda,  after  Paris;  but  she  was  not  depressed  now.  The 
young  Frenchwoman  and  her  baby  were  still  on  her  hands ; 
more  so  than  in  the  earlier  stages  of  the  journey,  now  that 
the  English  tongue  assailed  their  ears  at  every  turn.  The 
woman  managed  to  convey  to  Hilda,  after  much  talk  and 
many  signs,  that  she  would  be  met  at  the  station.  They 
laughed  a  good  deal,  these  two  young  women,  over  their 
struggles  to  exchange  ideas  with  only  the  baldest  begin- 
nings of  a  common  language  .  .  .  Hilda,  her  pulse 
quick,  her  temples  throbbing,  was  glad  of  the  diversion. 

She  had  not  thought  that  Doreyn  would  meet  the  train. 
Indeed,  she  had  purposely  refrained  from  telling  whether 
she  would  be  coming  in  at  Victoria  or  Charing  Cross;  for- 
getting that  such  information  is  not  hard  to  get. 


THE    HOXEY   BEE  347 

She  saw  him  now  just  as  she  was  delivering  her  charges 
to  the  husband  and  father  who  had  been  eagerly  searching 
the  crowded  platform  for  them. 

Doreyn  was  grayer.  That  was  her  first  thought.  But 
not  so  much  older.  She  glanced  again  at  him  through  the 
crowd.  He  had  alwa}-s  been  thin,  and  had  always  stooped 
a  little.  As  she  remembered  him,  the  stoop  had  been  more 
pronounced. 

He  was  looking  about  through  the  crowd,  looking  for 
her.  He  moved  a  little  forward — it  seemed  to  her  that  his 
step  was  light.  On  second  thought,  she  was  not  at  all  sure 
that  he  did  look  older.  Indeed,  he  was  disconcertingly  like 
the  Harris  Doreyn  of  earlier  years. 

Pictures  rose  swiftly  before  her  mind's  eye.  She  saw  him  as 
she  had  seen  him  last,  on  that  station  platform  in  Pennsyl- 
vania. Perhaps  it  had  been  the  sorrow  on  his  face  on  that 
vivid  occasion,  the  deep  sense  of  defeat,  that  had  made  her 
think  of  him  as  an  oldish  man.  And  then  his  letter  had 
revived  and  strengthened  that  impression.  She  suddenly 
recalled  now  that  there  had  been,  as  well,  sweetness  and  a 
bigger,  better,  philosophy  of  life  in  the  letter,  and  evi- 
dences of  vigorous,  independent  thinking. 

She  was  quite  bewildered.  She  knew  that  her  color  was 
rising,  her  pulse  high.  It  had  been  her  plan  to  change  her 
costume  at  the  hotel  before  seeing  him,  if  she  could.  She 
was  now  wearing  her  old  serge  suit — the  suit  she  had 
worn  on  that  memorable  evening  when  Blink  had  first 
taken  her  to  Luna  Park  and  then  to  La  venue's ;  and  over  it 
her  coat  of  gray  homespun,  waterproofed.  On  her  head 
was  a  simple  little  hat;  on  her  feet  the  low,  "common- 
sense"  shoes  in  which  she  preferred  to  travel.  .  .  .  For 
an  instant  she  indulged  the  rather  wild  notion  of  evading 
him,  and  letting  him  find  her  later  at  the  hotel.  He,  now, 


348  THE    HONEY   BEE 

was  distinctly  better  dressed  than  in  the  old  days.  She  had 
forgotten  that  men  no  longer  bow  before  the  advancing 
years;  that  they  dance,  work,  play  golf;  that  age  is  going 
out.  He  was,  indeed,  with  his  long  well-cut  overcoat,  his 
,  soft  hat  with  a  rather  wide  brim,  his  walking  stick,  a  man 
of  distinguished  appearance,  a  man  who  would  attract  no- 
tice anywhere  and  would  be  treated  with  respect. 

He  wore  a  mustache  now,  close-cropped,  iron-gray.  She 
wondered  if  she  liked  it;  and  decided  that  she  did. 

The  crowd  opened.  He  was  standing  still,  taller  than 
any  of  the  men  about  him.  Now  he  was  looking  toward 
her.  He  glanced  away,  then  back,  and  hesitated  an  instant, 
as  if  in  doubt.  She  waved  her  hand  and  smiled;  then 
turned  to  bid  her  fellow  traveler  farewell. 

When  she  turned  again  he  was  almost  at  her  side.  They 
clasped  hands  with  something  the  manner  of  casual  ac- 
quaintances. 

"I  didn't  expect  you  here,"  she  said,  smiling  again. 

"There  was  a  chance  of  missing  you,  of  course,"  said  he> 
"but  I  decided  to  take  it." 

He  seemed  to  her  quite  composed  in  manner.  It  was 
oddly  difficult  to  reconcile  this  experienced,  skilful  outer 
man  of  affairs,  with  the  great-hearted  person  of  frank,  deep, 
almost  boyish  feeling  that  his  letter  had  disclosed. 

<fYou  have  luggage,  Hilda?" 

"Oh,  yes."  She  remembered  now  the  impatient  porter 
behind  her. 

"Let  me  have  your  keys,  Hilda,  and  I'll  get  your  things 
through  the  customs.  Nothing  to  declare,  I  suppose." 

"No — nothing."  She  found  the  keys  in  her  wrist-bag, 
and  gave  them  to  him ;  then  slowly  followed  him  as  he  went 
with  the  porter  into  the  fenced-off  section  of  the  platform. 


THE    HOXEY   BEE  349 

It  was  going  to  be  hard  to  say  very  much.  She  thought 
about  this,  standing  there,  pursing  her  lips  and  watching 
the  swift  work  of  the  customs  officers.  She  wished  she  had 
driven  herself  to  write  that  letter,  as  he  had  written  his. 
For  now  that  they  were  face  to  face,  there  were  barriers. 
There  was  an  outer  worldly  personality  about  him,  built  up  ^ 
through  the  years  for  the  express  purpose  of  hiding  and 
protecting  the  really  human  man  within.  And  there  was 
the  same  sort  of  crust  about  herself,  of  course.  Yes,  it  was 
going  to  be  difficult,  and  in  ways  that  she  had  not  foreseen. 
If  only  she  liad  written  him,  honestly  and  fully!  Still, 
come  to  think  of  it,  she  couldn't  have  done  that,  for  until 
within  the  short  span  of  a  day  and  a  night  her  feelings  had 
been  changing  and  developing  with  a  rapidity  that  was — 
well,  violent.  It  was  not  more  than  twenty-four  hours 
since  she  had  begun  definitely  to  learn  what  her  feelings 
were.  But  if  only  it  had  been  possible  to  write  him,  the  ice 
would  have  been  partly  broken  by  now.  And  she  thought, 
with  a  rueful  half-smile — "There  is  so  much  ice  to  be 
broken,  so  many  cold  years  I" 

Locomotives  were  panting  in  the  great  dim  train  shed. 
Porters  with  laden  trucks  dodged  through  the  slowly 
dwindling  crowd.  Close  by  the  customs  enclosure,  in  the 
roadway  that  runs  through  the  station,  the  taxicabs  in  a 
long  and  impatient  line,  rattled  and  snorted. 

They  stood  by  one  of  the  taxis.    Hilda's  trunk  and  bags 
were  packed  in  beside  the  driver.    The  porter  had  opened  • 
the  door  for  them  and  now  stood  waiting. 

Hilda  felt  that  Doreyn  was  hesitating.  -  For  herself,  she 
was  silent.  Already  the  situation  had  far  outrun  her  ca- 
pacity for  thinking.  She  was  not  weakening,  she  would 
go  on,  but  she  could  not  think  or  plan. 


350  THE    HOKEY   BEE 

"You'll  want  to  go  right  to  the  hotel  and  make  changes/' 
said  he  in  a  low  voice,  after  that  curiously  long  moment. 

She  had  never  in  the  past  felt  this  clumsiness  in  him. 
She  was  glad  that  he  had  written  of  the  confusing  fires 
that  had  burned  with  such  glowing  unreason  in  his  heart ; 
it  helped  her  now  partially  to  understand  him.  And  she 
was  thinking,  as  she  watched  his  momentary  helplessness — 
"It  is  because  he  cares !"  There  was  a  thrill  in  the 
thought.  And,  too,  she  was  glad  that  he  showed  so  obvious 
an  unfamiliarity  with  the  requirements  of  a  situation  that 
was  essentially  furtive.  He,  like  herself,  had  always  re- 
sented that  side  of  their  relationship;  the  managing  of  it 
had  always  been  hateful  to  him.  As  he  had  written,  he 
was  a  frank  man,  not  an  evasive  one. 

aSTot  until  he  spoke  again  did  she  realize  that  she  had  not 
replied. 

aYou  see,  Hilda  .  .  .  You're  going  to  have  dinner 
with  me,  aren't  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,  Harris !" 

"Well  then,  suppose  I  send  you  along  now,  and  wait  in 
the  hotel  lounge  for  you." 

Pier  eyes  wandered  up  to  his  face,  and  down  again. 

"Aren't  you  coming?"  she  asked,  very  low. 

"I'll  take  another  taxi,"  said  he,  offhand. 

She  knew  that  he  was  glancing  at  the  too  visible  luggage. 
Resentment — that  old  resentment — was  stirring  deeply 
within  her.  He  was  thinking  only  of  her,  of  course.  But 
here  again,  and  this  time  at  the  great  moment,  she  found 
herself  confronted  by  the  old  furtive  thoughts.  They  were 
in  his  mind,  and  now  in  hers. 

She  compressed  her  lips.  Her  eyes  moistened,  quite  sud- 
denly. She  stiffened  herself,  and  drew  in  a  long  breath. 


THE    HOXEY   BEE  351 

The  porter  stood  patiently  there  at  the  door.  Less  pa- 
tiently the  chauffeur  fingered  the  wheel.  In  the  eyes  of 
each  was  deference,  but  behind  it  the  shrewdness  of  utter 
sophistication. 

The  confusion  of  the  great  station  was  all  about  them, 
roaring  in  their  ears. 

She  thought  again  of  his  letter,  and  of  that  phrase  of  his 
about  cowardice.  Suddenly  she  could  see  the  page,  the  very 
look  of  the  words  in  his  handwriting:  "cowardice — and  a 
hard  practical  self-interest." 

He  had  sacrificed  everything — he  had  cleaned  his  breast 
— before  coming  to  her.  Even  then  he  had  been  ready  to 
give  her  up.  He  had  asked  nothing.  It  was  she  who  had 
voluntarily  come  to  him. 

And  now  he  was  trying  to  shield  her.  That,  she  re- 
flected, half  bitterly,  was  natural  enough.  She  had  been 
the  kind  that  insisted  on  being  shielded — always  she  had 
been  that  kind.  And  he  could  not  possibly  know  how 
deeply  she  had  changed. 

She  glanced  down  at  the  old  serge  suit,  and  at  the  tip  of 
a  toe  that  appeared  beneath  the  skirt.  She  felt  travel- 
stained,  and — well,  clumsy. 

"Listen,  Harris,"  she  said — and  oddly  matter-of-fact 
her  voice  sounded  to  her  own  ears — "I  don't  need  to  go 
to  the  hotel  now.  Can't  we  just  leave  the  baggage  some- 
where and  go  on  to  a  restaurant  ?" 

The  quick  relief  that  came  to  his  face  brought  a  sudden 
warm  glow  to  her  heart.  She  stepped  into  the  cab. 

He  spoke  to  the  chauffeur,  placed  a  half  crown  in  the 
waiting  hand  of  the  porter,  and  followed.  The  door 
slammed.  He  was  sitting  there  beside  her,  his  arm  brush- 
ing against  hers. 


352  THE    HONEY   BEE 

The  taxi  whirled  out  of  the  station,  out  on  glistening 
wet  pavements. 

She  made  several  mental  efforts  to  frame  the  question 
that  was  in  her  mind.  Finally,  still  matter-of-fact,  she 
said: 

"Where  did  you  tell  him  to  go,  Harris  ?" 

"To  the  hotel.  I  will  have  the  hall  porter  lift  the  lug- 
gage off.  We  needn't  get  out." 

He  did  not  add,  "No  one  will  see  us."  But  he  might  as 
well  have  added  it. 

However,  she  merely  replied,  "That  is  what  I  was  going 
to  suggest." 

They  rode  through  Victoria  Street,  Parliament  Square, 
and  Whitehall,  Trafalgar  Square  and  the  Strand.  It  was 
extraordinarily  difficult  to  talk.  Hilda  looked  out  at  the 
buildings  that  slid  past- — great  stores,  a  corner  of  West- 
minster Abbey,  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  the  government 
buildings,  the  Nelson  monument  and  the  lions  in  Trafalgar 
Square;  then  the  dingy  crowded  Strand.  Everything  ap- 
peared more  than  normally  vivid.  Little  street  scenes  im- 
pressed her  .  .  .  A  man  had  been  hurt  in  an  accident — 
there  was  the  inevitable  curious  crowd  and  the  inevitable 
dominant  policeman;  a  remarkably  impressive  policeman, 
even  for  London.  She  looked  after  the  motor  buses,  with 
their  cacophony  of  advertising  signs.  Fleeting  impres- 
sions, yet  all  engraving  themselves  deep  in  her  memory 
as  they  flitted  past.  Even  at  the  moment,  sitting  quietly 
there  so  close  to  the  man  whose  personality  had,  after  all, 
dominated  her  life,  she  knew  that  she  would  never  forget 
this  ride. 

The  window  was  down  a  little  way  on  her  side  of  the 
cab,  and  a  few  drops  of  rain  came  in.  He  observed  this, 
and  asked  if  she  would  not  like  him  to  close  the  window. 


THE   HOXEY   BEE  353 

"No,"  she  said.    «I  like  it." 

There  were  a  few  other  such  desultory  remarks.  Nothing 
personal  was  said.  And  the  silences  were  deep. 

The  taxi  turned  into  the  courtyard  of  the  great  hotel, 
and  came  to  a  stop.  A  huge  green-and-gold  person  ap- 
peared. Hilda  leaned  forward,  suddenly  all  business. 

"Take  my  luggage,"  said  she  crisply,  "and  please  see  that 
a  room  and  bath  are  reserved  for  me  on  the  Embankment 
side.  I  will  be  back  later."  And  she  dropped  her  card  and 
a  coin  into  his  hand. 

The  green-and-gold  person  touched  his  hat  and  closed 
the  door.  Already  others  had  pounced  upon  the  luggage. 

She  turned  to  Doreyn.    "Where  are  we  going,  Harris?" 

"A  quiet  place,  Hilda—" 

"Yes,  where  we  can  talk." 

He  gave  the  chauffeur  the  name  of  a  French  restaurant 
in  Soho.  And  they  were  off. 

It  occurred  to  her  that  he  might  think  there  was  more 
of  the  old  cowardice  in  this  quick  desire  for  "a  quiet  place" 
.  .  .  Cowardice!  She  compressed  her  lips.  After  all, 
her  taste  on  this  evening  was  not  for  crowds  and  noise  and 
glitter.  Nor  was  his.  And  then,  of  course,  she  was  not 
dressed.  She  had  merely  expressed  an  honest  wish.  As  for 
the  rest  of  it — well,  doubtless  he  would  have  to  find  her  out. 
It  is  the  man's  business  to  find  the  woman  out  .  .  .  She 
wished  she  could  ask  if  he  was,  after  all,  sailing  on  the 
morrow. 

It  was  a  pleasant  little  restaurant,  with  red  walls  and 
white  woodwork.  There  were  candles  on  the  tables,  with 
red  shades. 

When  they  were  seated,  he  went  straight  at  the  menu. 
He  was  grave ;  and  courteous — a  little  distant.  It  was  his 
self -consciousness,  of  course. 


354  THE   HONEY   BEE 

Hilda  rested  her  chin  on  her  hands,  and  watched  him. 
She  was  smiling  a  little,  a  mask  of  a  smile. 

He  looked  up.  He  had  put  on  his  eyeglasses.  She  was 
glad  to  see  that  he  still  wore  the  old-fashioned  sort,  with 
small  lenses;  the  sight  of  them  carried  her  back,  brought 
up  little  scenes  from  their  past,  hers  and  his. 

"Harris,"  she  cried  softly,  "you  have  hardly  changed 
at  all!" 

He  smiled  at  this. 

"If  anything,  you  seem  younger  to  me,"  she  added. 

"You  are  a  little  older,  Hilda." 

"Perhaps  that  is  it." 

She  was  still  keeping  up  that  faint  mask  of  a  smile; 
perhaps  because,  for  sudden,  puzzling  little  reasons,  the 
tears  were  close  to  her  eyes.  She  was  thinking — swiftly, 
defiantly — of  the  years,  the  events,  the  tangle  of  dreams 
and  work  and  confused  emotions  that  struggled  there  be- 
tween them  where  the  table  ought  to  be.  Had  too  much 
water  run  under  the  bridge  ?  .  .  . 

He  said — "You  will  have  to  help  me  order,  Hilda.  I 
don't  know  just  how  your  tastes  run  now." 

"Oh — not  very  much,"  said  she — "a  light  dinner,  Har- 
ris. Let  me  see — what  have  they?" 

She  studied  the  menu.  It  provided  occupation,  for  the 
moment. 

"Oysters?"  he  suggested. 

She  slowly  shook  her  head.  "A  little  clear  soup,  Harris 
— chicken,  and  a  green  vegetable,  or  salad.  Perhaps  a 
light  dessert.  I  don't  care.  I'm  really  not  hungry — had 
a  fairly  heavy  lunch  on  the  train." 

He  gave  the  order;  the"h  hesitated,  and  looked  inquir- 
ingly across  at  her  .  .  .  "A  little  wine,  Hilda?" 


THE    HONEY   BEE  355 

She  shook  her  head,  quite  suddenly,  with  compressed 
lips. 

"That  suits  rne  just  as  well,"  said  he.  He  laid  the  card 
aside,  and  clasped  his  hands  on  the  table. 

"Harris,"  she  said,  abruptly.  "Are  you  sure  you  ought 
to  be  out  this  way  ?" 

"Out  what  way,  Hilda?" 

"Knocking  around — in  the  rain?" 

"Oh,  that !"  said  he.  "I'm  all  right,  Hilda.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact  I  have  been  getting  well  so  fast  that  I  have 
been  a  little  ashamed  of  my  letter.  The  human  frame  will 
stand  a  lot,  it  seems."  Then  he  changed  the  subject.  "You 
get  over  here — Paris  and  London — pretty  regularly,  I  sup- 
pose, Hilda." 

"Twice  a  year,  Harris." 

"Are  you  spending  much  time  here,  this  trip  ?  In  Lon- 
don, I  mean." 

This  was  the  question.  A  few  words  from  her,  a  sim- 
ple straightforward  answer,  and  the  ice  would  be  broken 
forever.  She  sat  very  still,  fighting  back  the  color  that 
she  felt  rushing  to  her  cheeks.  Fortunately  he  was  not 
looking ;  he  was  studying  his  clasped  hands. 

She  could  not  give  him  that  simple  answer.  She  felt 
herself  dodging  back,  downright  running  away. 

"I  don't  often  have  much  time  here."  .  .  .  She  could 
.not  look  at  him. 

"Most  of  your  work  is  on  the  continent,  I  suppose." 

She  inclined  her  head.  Then,  wilfully,  she  changed  the 
subject,  recalling  one  or  two  office  episodes  that  had  once 
amused  them,  and  asking  after  old  associates.  But  all 
the  time,  in  a  mental  undertone,  she  was  thinking — "He 
was  right.  I  am  a,  coward!  Just  a  coward!"  And  she 


356  THE    HONEY   BEE 

suddenly  recalled  and  applied  to  her  own  case  a  judgment 
she  had  once  heard  him  utter  regarding  a  certain  fair- 
weather  department  head  who  had  not  remained  long  with 
the  company — "I'm  just  about  good  enough  to  make  a 
showing  until  something  happens !" 

With  the  soup  she  found  herself  approaching  the  vital, 
topic  from  another  angle.  "You — you're  sailing  to-mor- 
row?" 

He  hesitated.  And  in  one  of  those  flashes  that  came  to 
her  now  and  again,  she  had  a  swift  look  into  his  mind.  He 
was  thinking  of  her,  again  and  always.  He  would  not  be 
put  in  the  position  of  taking  her  for  granted. 

"Why — no,  I'm  not,  Hilda."  He  spoke  quietly  enough ; 
but  she  knew  that  he,  like  herself,  could  not  raise  his  eyes. 
"You  see,  you  said  nothing  in  your  message  about  sailing, 
and  so  I  figured  that  you  would  be  here  a  few  days.  And 
of  course,  Hilda — now  that  you  are  actually  here — I  want 
to  see  what  little  of  you  I  can.  You  will  be  busy,  of 
course." 

"You  canceled  your  passage,  then  ?" 

"Yes.  Just  before  they  closed,  this  afternoon.  You  will 
be  busy,  Hilda.  I  shan't  expect  to  see  much  of  you.  But — " 

"I  shall  not  be  busy,  Harris."  Her  voice  buried  itself 
in  her  throat. 


XXYI 

HILDA  AT  LAST  FEELS  THAT  SHE  IS  HERSELF ;  PLIGHTS  HEE 
WORD;  AND  FALLS  ASLEEP  WITH  SOBERING  THOUGHTS 

HE  PAUSED,  not  quite  hearing,  then  went  on: 
" — but  I'll  admit,  Hilda,  I  am  hoping  for  a  few 
chances  to  talk.  You  see" — he  was  smiling  now 
• — "we've  got  so  many  threads  to  pick  up.  "We  really 
shouldn't  expect  to  do  it  all  in  a  minute.  I  don't  know 
what  we — no  good  talking  gloom ! — but  it  may  be  a  good 
while  before  we  have  any  such  chance  to  get  acquainted. 
I  didn't  succeed  in  writing  the  things  I  wanted  to  say, 
of  course." 

Quite  suddenly  she  looked  up.  "That  was  a  wonderful 
letter,  Harris !"  she  said,  very  softly. 

He  waved  this  remark  off.  For  a  moment  he  looked  at 
her;  then  his  gaze  wandered  to  a  neighboring  table,  to  the 
red  candle  shade  at  his  elbow,  to  a  point  on  the  wall  not 
far  from  her  shoulder.  He  studied  this  last  point  with 
some  intentness.  It  was  an  old  odd  trick  of  his,  when  he 
was  thinking,  this  of  apparently  filing  his  attention  on 
near-by  objects.  It  left  her  high  and  dry,  outside  any 
possible  current  of  talk.  And  it  stirred  a  thousand  half- 
lost  memories  of  their  years  together  in  the  old  office. 

When  he  looked  that  way,  the  thing  to  do,  she  knew,  was 
to  wait.  Accordingly  she  waited. 

357 


358  THE    HONEY   BEE 

Finally  lie  turned — smiling  again,  more  like  himself; 
smiling  with  the  old  odd  blend  of  shrewdness  and  good 
humor.  Yet  it  was  not  wholly  the  same ;  she  felt  a  deeper 
gentleness. 

"Has  it  occurred  to  you,  Hilda/7  he  said,  "that  we  are  a 
pair  of  children,  you  and  I  ?" 

The  simplicity  of  tliis  remark  brought  the  tears  sud- 
denly close.  She  had  to  smile  as  she  nodded.  "I  know, 
Harris.  We  are.  There  are  so  many  things  to  say — and  I 
can't  say  them.  I  can't,  Harris !"  She  leaned  forward  on 
the  table,  and  spoke,  by  way  of  self-contradiction,  in  a 
sudden  earnest  flow  of  words.  "You  must  be  patient  with 
me,  Harris.  Please !  You  see,  you  have  written  it  out — 
some  of  it — and  I  couldn't  write  it.  And  I  have  come 
,  straight  to  find  you — " 

"I  didn't  want  you  to  come,  Hilda." 

" — and  now  I  can't  manage  to  say  anything  but  foolish 
little  remarks  about  trunks  and  taxis  and  chicken  and 
salad.  It  is — it's  absurd !  I  am  not  hard,  Harris — not  as 
I  was.  I  have  feelings — but  they  are  all  locked  up  inside 
me.  Please  be  patient  with  me,  Harris !  If  any  one  on 
earth  has  the  key,  it  is  you." 

Her  face  was  scarlet.  He  was  saying  again — "But  I 
didn't  want  you  to  come,  Hilda." 

"Harris,  you  did !"  she  cried. 

"Yes,  of  course.  But  I  tried  to  make  that  plain  in  my 
letter—" 

"I  understood  your  letter,  Harris.  I  was  only  afraid  of 
coming  too  late — " 

"You  don't  mean  that  you  dropped  everything  and  came 
just  for — " 

"There  was  nothing  to  drop,  Harris."  She  was  very 
sober  now ;  that  deep  flush  spoke  more  of  sheer  nervous  ex- 


THE    HONEY   BEE  359 

citement  than  of  confusion.  She  added,  "I  "was  afraid  you 
would  be  going  up  to  Liverpool  to-day." 

"I  did  consider  that." 

"And  if  you  had,  I  would  have  followed  you." 

"But  your  work,  child  I" 

"I  am  not  working  now.  I  will  tell  you  all  about  that — • 
later,  some  day  when  we  are  talking.  I  have  so  much  to 
tell  you,  Harris !  I  have  been  taking  a  vacation.  And 
strange  things  have  happened  to  me.  I  have  been  shaken, 
Harris.  I  was  so  afraid  you  wouldn't  be  here — that  after 
all  you  have  been  through  I  might  fail  to  find  you  .  .  ." 

He  sat  very  still.  He  had  let  his  hand  drop  on  the  table, 
find  was  fingering  a  spoon.  She  glanced  down  now  at  that 
hand.  She  could  have  reached  out  and  touched  it  with 
hardly  an  effort. 

"Harris !"  she  broke  out,  on  a  sudden  warm  impulse. 
"I  can't  quite  believe  it.  You  Jiaven't  changed!" 

He  seemed  literally  not  to  hear  her.  "When  he  did  speak 
it  was  to  say,  very  slowly : 

"You  know,  Hilda,  I  meant  just  what  I  said  in  my 
letter.  I  have  come  to  feel  that  it  is  best  for  me  to  go 
back  and  try  to  work  it  out  alone.  It  has  been  a  moving 
experience,  this  journey.  And  my  illness  after  it  was  a 
warning.  I  have  been  shaken,  too — " 

"Oh,  Harris,"  she  breathed,  looking  full  at  him  with' 
great  glistening  eyes,  "it  was  wonderful!  Do  you  think 
'  I  don't  see  that  for  myself  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  I'm  not  big,  Har- 
ris ;  not  as  you  are.  I  know  well  enough  what  I  have  done. 
I  fought  you.  Yes,  I  did!  I  fought  your  influence  in  my 
life—" 

"But,  Hilda—" 

"I  was  a  coward.  I  was  hard.  You  said  it,  Harris — • 
'hard  practical  self-interest' — " 


360  THE    HONEY   BEE 

"But  Hilda,  it  was  an  instinct.  You  were  right — I  was 
wrong.  What  else  could  you  have  done?  There  we  were 
— my  family — " 

"I  don't  know  what  we  could  have  done,  Harris.  Right 
now  I  don't  seem,  to  care.  Perhaps  we  had  to  part.  Yes, 
probably  we  did.  My  instinct,  as  you  say,  may  have  been 
sound  enough.  That  wasn't  my  real  offense.  Harris,  I 
fought  you.  I  hardened  myself  against  you.  I  brought 
fresh  interests  into  my  life  for  the  very  purpose  of  crowd- 
ing you  out  of  it.  I  tried  to  forget.  During  those  first 
busy  years  I  almost  did  forget." 

"Hilda,  do  you  mean  .  .  .  Hilda,  if  I  -were  free,  do 
you  mean  that  you  would  ...  it  is  hard  to  say  .  .  ." 

"Don't  say  'if  I  were  free',  Harris !" 

"But  I  am  not  free  yet,  Hilda." 

"Has  tliat  anything  to  do  with  the  way  I  feel,  Harris? 
Outside  of  injuring  others?  I  couldn't  do  that,  of  course 
— not  wilfully.  But  it  seems  that  I  have  done  that.  I  did 
just  that  and  then  refused  to  help,  tore  my  life  away  from 
yours.  I  was  cowardly — hard — practical — " 

"Please,  Hilda !"  She  caught  the  look  of  pain  in  his 
face,  and  her  intensity  slackened,  softened.  "I  must  tell 
you  now,"  he  was  going  on,  "I  have  had  a  pretty  bad  time 
over  that  letter  of  mine — since  I  sent  it.  It  was  doubtless 
a  natural  enough  thing  to  do,  at  the  time,  the  way  I  felt. 
But  after  it  had  gone  I  realized  that  from  beginning  toi 
end  it  was  a  demand." 

"It  wasn't,  Harris !" 

"And  some  of  the  old  bitterness  was  there.     Hilda,  I 

am  not  really  bitter.     I  would  really  be  happier — now — 

in  a  way — knowing  that  you  are  going  on  to  complete  your 

life  in  freedom.    But  in  giving  you  up,  for  once  and  all, 

•I  couldn't  bear  to  let  you  go  without  telling  how  muc> 


THE    HOXEY   BEE  361 

more,  how  much  finer,  than  a  gust  of  passion  my  feeling 
for  you  has  proved  itself  to  be." 

"Oh— Harris!    .    .    ." 

"And  I  wanted  you  to  know,  that  I  tried  first  to  conquer 
it,  and  then,  when  that  failed,  to  live  worthily  of  it.  !No, 
I  don't  think  I  am  really  bitter.  I'll  admit  I've  been  sur- 
prised to  find  how  deep  some  of  those  old  resentments 
lie."  He  spoke  more  quietly  now;  and  looked  up  at  her. 
"I  have  regretted  those  phrases  enough,  Hilda.  I  do  know 
better,  really." 

"Xo,"  said  she,  "surely  you  don't.  That  phrase" — 
she  saw  him  wince  as  she  repeated  it — "  'hard  practical 
self-interest,'  was  an  arrow  of  truth,  Harris.  It  struck 
home.  Even  if  you  didn't  consciously  think  it,  it  had 
rankled  there  deep  in  your  feelings  all  these  years  simply 
because  it  was  true.  I  really  think  it  had  to  be  said — 
once.  My  air  needed  clearing.  That  cleared  it  ...  You 
see,  you  have  always  been  giving — to  your  family,  to  the 
business,  to — to  me.  And  you  have  had  to  take  chances, 
run  risks,  fight  big  hard  fights.  In  all  the  relations  of 
your  life  you  have  been  the  responsible  one,  the  one  that 
carried  the  burdens.  While  I  have  been  a  salaried  person 
— taking,  always  taking.  You  have  given  your  life,  I  have 
been  bent  on  taking  mine.  I  have  lost  out — " 

"How  about  me,  Hilda?  You  could  hardly  say  that  I 
have  won." 

"Yes,  Harris,  you  have.  If  one  ever  wins !  You  have 
been  growing  simpler,  and  finer,  and  gentler — oh,  don't 
try  to  tell  me  you  haven't !  I  have  eyes.  You  are  big, 
Harris — a  big  man !  While  I — " 

The  tears  were  coming.  She  stopped,  with  shut  lips. 
Then  she  felt  him  smiling,  an  incredulous  smile — whim- 
sical, too. 


363  THE    HONEY   BEE 

"Hilda,"  he  said,  "we  are  a  pair  of  children — arguing 
hotly  about  the  unarguable.  Let  us  try  to  be  reasonable." 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't — not  right  now." 

"Let's  try."  He  was  still  smiling.  "As  a  matter  of  fact, 
we're  both  stirred  pretty  deeply.  The  difficulty  with  such 
a  situation  as  this  is  that  neither  of  us  can  hope  to  realize 
— now,  to-night — how  deeply  we  are  stirred.  It  doesn't 
happen  every  day.  It  doesn't  happen  once  in  the  average 
lifetime.  For  years  I  have  had  to  fight  down  day-dreams 
of  this  moment — this  moment,  Hilda! — when  you  would 
come  to  me  like  this.  It  has,  at  times,  been  more  exciting 
than  I  could  bear — just  thinking  about  it.  And  now,  all 
at  once,  here  it  is !"  She  loved  his  smile.  It  was  gentler ; 
and  distinctly  more  quizzical,  more  whimsical,  than  in  the 
old  days.  "I  am  perfectly  aware,  Hilda,  that  I  can't  think 
rationally  to-night.  I  am  not  sensible." 

The  corners  of  her  own  mouth  were  twitching  now.  Just 
as  he  was  sobering. 

His  hand  still  lay  there  on  the  table.  She  reached  out, 
with  a  curious  hesitation.  Her  pulse  was  racing.  He* 
hand  brushed  softly  against  his,  then  timidly,  caressingly, 
closed  about  it. 

She  felt  his  fingers  tighten  about  her  own.  Vaguely, 
with  little  the  appearance  of  actuality,  she  saw  the  waiter 
turn  discreetly  away.  She  looked  after  him  because  she 
could  not  look  at  Doreyn. 

After  a  little  she  heard  him  say : 

"Let's  go  on  with  our  dinner,  Hilda,  like  the  sensible 
folks  we  aren't."  And  in  a  lower  tone,  he  added — "It  is 
wonderful !" 

The  ice  was  broken  now — the  last  of  it.  And  with  that 
simple  clasping  of  hands  had  passed  something  of  the 


THE    HONEY   BEE  363 

nervous  intensity  that  had  so  stirred  them.  "With  the 
salad,  and  the  dessert,  they  found  themselves  drifting  into 
a  quietly  companionable  atmosphere,  into  a  sense  of  closer 
friendship  than  any  they  had  known  in  their  former  as- 
sociation. 

Hilda  even  found  herself  asking  about  the  business — 
the  great  Doreyn  Company  of  to-day.  He  gave  her  odd 
interesting  bits  of  information,  with  glimpses  of  the  three 
or  four  hard  fights  that  had  led  up  to  the  final  establishing 
of  the  company  as  a  solid  concern. 

"I  haven't  been  very  active  of  recent  years,"  he  added. 
"Xot  since  my  long  illness — the  year  I  spent  at  Carlsbad." 

"Was  it  hard  to  let  go,  Harris  ?" 

"Yes,  at  first.  But  still,  I  wanted  to.  The  real  diffi- 
culty, of  course,  was  in  getting  myself  out  of  the  clutches 
of  the  business." 

"Of  course,"  said  she.  "That  would  have  been.  I  don't 
see  how  you  ever  managed  it — with  such  complexities." 

"Those  things  can  generally  be  managed,  Hilda.  It  took 
a  few  years,  of  course.  And  I  might  not  be  free  of  it  yet 
if  I  hadn't  cut  the  last  knots  out  of  downright  impatience, 
just  before  I  started  on  this  journey." 

While  they  talked  on,  each  telling  the  other  whatever 
drifted  into  his  mind,  Hilda  found  her  nerves  steadying 
a  little.  Finally,  when  a  glance  at  her  wrist  watch  told 
her  that  it  was  close  on  eleven  o'clock,  she  said,  suddenly 
very  practical,  "Harris,  I  think  I'll  take  you  back  now." 

"Take  me  back?" 

"Yes.  It  is  wonderful  to  find  you  so  well.  But  we're 
both  tired.  And  I  have  a  notion,  anyway,  that  you  are 
fooling  me  some  about  your  health." 

He  thought  this  over;  and  a  shadow  crossed  his  face. 


364  THE    HONEY   BEE 

"I'm  afraid  we  have  been  rather  careless,  Hilda.  We 
could" — he  hesitated — "we  could  just  as  well  have  left 
your  things  at  another  hotel.  I  must  have  lost  my  wits." 

"Please,  Harris— don't  1" 

"But,  Hilda — this  is  a  very  wonderful  moment — but  do 
you  think  I  am  going  to  permit  your  wThole  future  to  bo 
jeopardized.  Even  if  we — later — " 

"Do  you  think  I  care,  Harris !" 

"Child !    You  must  care !" 

"Harris !"  she  leaned  forward.  Her  gray-blue  eyes  were 
big  and  honest,  her  voice  low  and  none  too  steady.  "All 
those  things  have  been  said — everything  that  could  be  said 
about  me  has  been  said — and  none  of  it  is  true.  Not  one 
word  of  it.  Now  I  want  to  be  real  for  once.  Just  real. 
I'm  sick  of  cowardice — " 

"Yes,  Hilda,  bless  your  heart.    But — " 

"Tell  me,  Harris,  could  it  hurt  you?" 

"Oh,  no,  dear !    Heavens,  no !    But — " 

She  motioned  him  silent. 

"Harris,"  she  said,  "please  pay  the  check  and  let  us  go." 

The  waiter  brought  his  long  coat,  that  looked  so  well  on 
him,  and  her  old  homespun  coat. 

Doreyn  stepped  forward,  took  her  coat  from  the  man, 
and  held  it  for  her.  As  it  settled  about  her  shoulders  she 
felt  his  hands  rest  there  for  a  brief  moment. 

They  waited  at  the  door  for  a  taxi.  He  stepped  in  after 
her.  The  door  slammed  shut,  and  the  car  moved  off  down 
the  dimly  lighted  street. 

His  hand  brushed  against  hers.  Slowly  their  fingers  in- 
tertwined. 

The  car  turned  out  of  the  Soho  district  and  into  Lei- 
cester Square.  Out  there  in  the  wide  street,  away  from 
the  lights  of  the  music-halls  and  the  shop  fronts,  it  was 


THE    HOXEY   BEE  365 

dark.  She  felt  him  suddenly  sit  up  straight  and  draw  in  a 
sharp  breath. 

"What  is  it,  Harris?"  she  whispered. 

He  withdrew  his  hand,  slipped  his  arm  about  her  shoul- 
.  ders,  drew  her  head  close — then,  gazing  down  into  her  up- 
.  turned  face  for  a  brief  moment,  bent  nearer. 

Her  lips  met  his,  very  gently.  And  the  years  that  had 
been  between  them  fell  softly  away. 

They  came  in  through  the  gorgeous  hall  of  the  great 
hotel,  their  faces  flushed,  their  eyes  in  a  daze.  She  paused 
finally,  and  extended  her  hand  to  say  good  night ;  not  out 
of  a  plan,  rather  because  it  seemed,  in  a  vague  way,  the 
next  thing.  He  took  her  hand.  They  even  said  good 
night — or  so  it  seemed  to  her. 

Then  she  heard  him  saying: 

"Hilda — we  can't  part  like  this  .  .  .  here,  let's  sit 
down!" 

He  was  leading  the  way  to  a  divan,  in  an  inconspicuous 
corner  of  the  lounge.  She  sank  down  beside  him.  And  on 
the  instant,  she  could  not  have  said  how,  her  hand  had 
found  a  nestling  place  in  his,  hidden  between  them,  close 
to  her  side  and  his. 

She  sat  very  still,  looking  straight  before  her  across  the 
great  room.  A  few  groups  of  men  and  women  sat  talking, 
and  sipping  liqueurs,  and  smoking.  ISTobody  minded  them. 
^Xobody  cared. 

Doreyn's  thoughtful  eyes  were  on  her.  He  could  see, 
and  feel,  the  new  unsmiling  softness  about  her  mouth. 
She  was  so  blankly  sober!  The  deeps  within  her  were 
stirred.  She  was  a  big  woman  now — he  felt  that.  Big 
and  fine  in  the  humility  and  sweetness  that  were  so  new  to 
her,  and  so  wonderful !  And  she  had  come  to  him  .  .  . 
after  the  years  .  .  . 


366  THE    HOKEY   BEE 

"I'm  thinking,  Harris — " 

"Yes,  child?" 

"We  can't  sit  here  like  this." 

"I  know." 

"Probably  we  ought  to  say  good  night." 

"We  will,  Hilda.  But  give  me  just  a  few  moments  more 
of  you.  I'm  trying  to  believe  it." 

Her  fingers  tightened  a  little  about  his.  "Don't  you  be- 
lieve it,  dear?" 

"In  a  way,  of  course.  And  then  again  I  seem  not  to. 
It  has  been  so  long,  Hilda — so  very  long !" 

"Yes,  it  has  been  long.  Do  you  think — it  has  been — too 
long,  Harris?" 

He  slowly  shook  his  head,  with  compressed  lips.  "How 
could  it  be  too  long,  child !" 

She  was  still  looking  out,  straight  ahead,  thinking  of 
dark  water  running  swiftly  under  a  bridge — water  that 
could  never  flow  under  that  bridge  again,  but  had  lost  itself 
in  the  sea,  and  been  drawn  in  a  changed  form  to  the 
clouds,  and  drifted  off  to  fall  again,  God  knew  where ! 

"I'm  not  the  same,  Harris.  I'm  different — harder.  Yes, 
I  am !"  For  he  was  smiling  at  this.  "Selfish.  One  does 
form  habits.  You  can't  smile  those  habits  away,  I'm  afraid, 
Harris." 

"You  are  a  better  woman  than  the  girl  I  loved,  Hilda.  I 
Life  has  deepened  you." 

"Oh,  if  I  could  only  believe  that !"  she  breathed,  low. 

"That  is  how  I  feel  you,  dear." 

He  could  see  her  thinking  about  this,  groping  to  find 
herself  in  this  new  bewilderment.  Then  she  shook  off  the 
mood — without,  he  thought,  altogether  arriving  at  a  clear 
mind. 

"Perhaps  we  ought  to  say  good  night,  Harris  ?" 


tts 


THE   HONEY   BEE  367 

"We  are  going  to,  child,  in  a  moment.  We're  as  much 
at  sea  as  ever.  We  haven't  planned." 

"We'll  plan  to  breakfast  together.  Perhaps  one  or  the 
other  of  us  will  have  recovered  a  little  sense  by  that  time." 

"Perhaps,  dear.  I  hope  so.  But  I  seem  to  have  let 
everything  slip.  Just  as  I  had  worked  out  all  the  reasons 
why  I  must  give  you  up — good  reasons,  too.  I'm  a  little 
ashamed,  Hilda.  It  was  all  because  I  kissed  you." 

"The  kiss  was  yours  for  the  taking,  Harris." 

"But  I  have  meant  so  differently.     It  was  treason." 

She  whispered,  very  softly,  "It  was  love." 

"Yes,  Hilda,  no  doubt  about  that.  It  was  love.  And 
it  was  a  man's  life.  But  I  have  got  to  let  you  go.  I  should 
have  been  stronger." 

"I  won't  go,  Harris." 

"Oh   .   .   .   Hilda." 

"You  need  me,  Harris.  I  am  through  living  for  myself. 
Perhaps  it  is  too  late — but  my  life  is  yours." 

"How  can  I  take  it,  Hilda  ?" 

"How  can  you  help  taking  it?  How  can  either  of  us 
help  it  ?  Do  you  really  think  that  words  can  stop  us  now  ? 
You  crossed  the  ocean  to  find  me.  I  crossed" — her  eyes 
lighted,  with  a  sober,  self-reproachful  sort  of  humor — "I 
crossed  the  channel  to  find  you.  Here  we  are !" 

He  was  struck  by  this.  He  slowly  nodded.  "Yes — here , 
we  are !"  He  was  turning  new  thoughts  over  and  over  in ' 
his  mind.  "Are  you  sure,  Hilda  ?  Perfectly  sure  ?" 

She  gave  him  one  swift  glance,  smiled  a  little,  and 
pressed  his  hand  close  against  her  side. 

They  were  silent  for  a  space.    Then  he  said,  moodily : 

"This  is  just  about  overpowering,  Hilda." 

"I  know." 

"And  it  seems  somehow  wrong." 


368  THE    HONEY   BEE 

"How  wrong?" 

"Why,  child — we  are  plunging  straight  toward  the  one 
thing  I  have  come  to  think  unfair,  impossible/' 

That  faint  smile  again  touched  her  eyes  and  lips.  "To- 
,  ward  what,  Harris  ?" 

"Toward" — he  found  some  real  difficulty  in  saying  it — 
"toward  a  life  together — marriage." 

Her  fingers  were  tight  about  his.  And  she  was  nodding 
gently,  but  not  smiling.  "Yes,  Harris,  a  life  together, 
such  as  may  be  left  to  us.  I  have  stolen  precious  years 
from  your  life — " 

"Don't  say  that,  child!  The  facts  were  solidly  against 
us.  You  are  forgetting." 

"No,  I  am  not  forgetting.  At  least  you  might  have  felt 
me  there — helping,  and  waiting." 

"Impossible,  Hilda !    You  were  right." 

"I  was  wrong,  Harris.  No  use,  I  can't  see  it  any  other 
way.  "Wrong  in  my  spirit,  I  mean.  I  fought  you — fought 
the  one  man  that  loved  me  more  than  his  life."  Her  eyes 
were  filling.  "I  never  was  worthy  of  your  friendship,  even, 
let  alone  love !  And  I  had  your  love — and  trampled  on  it 
— and  fought  you !" 

"You  are  quite  unreasonable,  child.  You  had  a  moral 
sense — that  was  natural.  It  was  sound.  I  don't  even  now 
see  quite  what  we  are  to  do.  Can  you  wait  for  me,  Hilda 
'  — perhaps  a  year  ?  Is  it  fair  ?" 

"Of  course  I  can  wait,  Harris.  Please  never  ask  me  that 
again !  .  .  .  I'm  going  to  make  you  go  now." 

He  released  her  hand,  and  sat  up,  thinking.  Finally  he 
smiled.  "Well,  Hilda,  as  you  said — Here  we  are !  We'll 
talk  it  over  in  the  morning.  We've  got  to  separate,  for  the 
present." 

She  gave  a  little  shrug. 


THE    HOXEY   BEE  369 

"I'm  going  to  take  good  care  of  you,  girl.  So  that, 
years  from  now,  you  will  be  able  to  look  back  en  this  year 
with  no  regrets/' 

"I  shan't  have  any  regrets."  She  knit  her  brows.  "Tell 
me,  Harris,  are  you  as  well  as  you  look,  and  seem  ?" 

He  nodded. 

"I  shall  worry  about  you.  What  if  you  should  be  ill, 
and  I  not  there.  Harris,  I  want  to  take  care  of  you." 

"I  shan't  be  ill,  child!" 

"If  you  were,  would  you  call  me  ?" 

"Hilda,  child,  you  must  not  forget  that  this  is  a  big 
city  hotel,  where  we  are  both  known,  you  and  I.  You 
couldn't  come  to  my  room  like  that." 

"I  don't  seem  to  care,  Harris." 

"You  must  care,  dear.    Or  I  must  for  you." 

She  pursed  her  lips ;  and  for  a  moment  studied  his  face. 
She  turned  and  swiftly  surveyed  the  room.  No  one  was 
observing  them.  Nobody  cared. 

She  reached  out  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  temple; 
pressed  it  there  a  moment;  then  let  it  slide  down  his 
cheek. 

Their  eyes  met,  and  lingered.  There  was  magic  in  her 
touch.  Each  felt  it.  Each  saw  it  in  the  other's  eyes. 

He  got  up,  then.  And  she  after  him.  He  took  her  right 
hand  in  his  left.  And  they  glanced  about  the  nearly  empty 
room  like  guiltily  happy  children. 

Their  eyes  met  again.  The  same  magic  held  them,  eye 
te  eye. 

She  drew  in  a  quick  breath,  then  turned  away.  "I  want 
to  kiss  you  again,  Harris." 

"I  know,  Hilda  .  .  .  But  we  can't.  You  must  go. 
Quick — please !" 

"Yes.    Good  night,  dear." 


370  THE    HONEY   BEE 

"Good  night,  child." 

And  she  left  him  standing  there. 

At  the  door  she  paused  and  looked  back.  He  had  not 
moved.  He  looked  very  distinguished — standing  hat  and 
stick  in  hand,  his  overcoat  on  his  arm.  She  was  thinking, 
in  a  flash,  how  absurd  it  was  for  him  to  talk  about  his 
age.  He  was  only  a  little  more  than  fifty — in  his  prime — 
in  midflight  of  a  splendid  career — a  career  colored  so 
curiously  by  his  love  for  herself !  She  decided  then,  on 
the  instant,  that  he  must  not  withdraw  from  active  life. 
Since  he  was  not  old,  he  must  not  te  old.  They  would  build, 
he  and  she,  build  a  new  rich  life. 

He  pressed  his  fingers  to  his  lips.    She  did  the  same. 

Then  she  hurried  up  to  her  room.  She  knew  well  enough 
that  there  would  be  no  sleep  for  her;  certainly  not  for 
a  time.  She  busied  herself  unpacking  her  handbags.  She 
opened  her  trunk,  and  spread  the  fan-like  cluster  of  clothes 
hangers,  smoothing  the  wrinkles  out  of  suits  and  gowns. 
Then,  slipping  out  of  her  clothes  and  into  nightgown  and 
negligee,  she  sat  for  a  long  time  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
braiding  her  hair  and  trying  to  think.  It  had  never  been 
so  difficult  to  think.  Her  being  was  aflame  with  a  wild 
new  joy. 

And  there  were  queer  little  cold  reactions.  She  fell  to 
speculating  about  love,  wondering  what  the  word  meant. 
Curiously  enough — and  she  even,  herself,  thought  of  it  as 
curious — during  these  moments  of  reaction  the  magic 
seemed  to  leave  her.  In  one  of  these  moments  it  occurred 
to  her  that  she  could  not  say  she  "loved"  this  man.  The 
only  thing  she  was  sure  of,  the  only  positive  thing,  was 
that  she  was  going  straight  on.  That  hard  driving  power 
of  will  that  had  carried  her  away  from  him  during  the 
years  now  had  reversed  its  direction  and.  was  resistlessly 


THE   HONEY   BEE  371 

moving  her  toward  him  .  .  .  Not  that  she  regretted  the 
fact;  she  merely  wondered  at  it,  with  a  sense  of  over- 
nervous  alertness  of  mind  and  feelings,  yet  with  detach- 
ment of  a  sort.  Certainly  she  was  going  on.  And  it  was 
equally  certain  that  she  had  meant  all  she  had  said  to  him, 
all  she  had  implied,  even.  It  was  what  she  had  come  to  Lon- 
don to  say  .  .  .  She  recalled  another  phrase  from  his 
letter,  "this  set  of  experiences  that  we  group  so  loosely  and 
casually  under  the  term  love.5 "  Doubtless  that  was  it — a 
bewildering,  compelling  "set  of  experiences/'  such  as  she 
was  passing  through.  She  was  suddenly  glad  that  he,  too, 
had  felt  these  confusions.  It  gave  them  common  ground. 

She  was  trying  to  see  him  with  her  mind's  eye.  It  was 
tantalizingly  difficult.  She  found  herself,  instead  of  clearly 
picturing  him  as  he  had  appeared  in  that  last  moment 
when  she  looked  back  from  the  door,  remembering  episodes 
of  their  office  days,  and  little  ways  of  his — tricks  of  speech, 
poses  of  his  fine  head,  the  motions  of  his  rather  long  hands. 
She  could  visualize  the  back  of  his  head  better  than  his 
face ;  he  had  what  she  had  always  thought  of  as  a  "gentle- 
man's head,"  in  the  line  from  the  temple  past  the  ears, 
and  in  the  modeling  behind  the  ears. 

And  then  for  a  time,  after  she  had  put  out  the  lights, 
raised  the  windows  high  for  air,  and  crept  into  bed,  she  lay 
very  quietly,  looking  up  into  the  darkness  and  brooding  on 
herself.  The  new  situation  was  going  to  make  unusual  de- 
mands of  her.  "Would  she  prove  equal  to  them?  "I'm 
like  a  bachelor,"  she  thought,  "who  is  called  upon  to  give 
up,  all  at  once,  his  hundreds  of  little  selfish  personal  habits. 
I'm  terribly  independent  about  little  things.  For  that 
matter,  I  am  exactly  that — a  bachelor  woman.  And  those 
little  things,  some  of  them,  are  going  to  be  harder  than 
the  big  things.  It  is  the  difficulty  of  remembering,  of 


372  THE   HONEY   BEE 

thinking  in  time,  about  matters  that  seem  too  small,  al- 
most, to  think  about  at  all.  I  wonder  if  it  is  in  me  to  be 
kind — as  kind  as  he  deserves." 

It  was,  after  all,  just  a  problem.  All  her  life  she  had 
been  wrestling  with  problems.  Most  of  them  she  had 
solved  with  some  success.  All  she  could  do,  was  to  try  to 
be  equal  to  this  one. 

Yes,  it  was  just  one  more  job — a  very  big  job,  that 
would  bring,  should  she  prove  equal  to  it,  fine  rewards  in 
happiness  and  growth.  It  was  a  job  that  had  in  it  infinite 
possibilities  of  sweetness  and  beauty.  But  it  was,  first 
and  last,  a  job. 

"It  looks  to  me,  Hilda  Wilson,"  she  mused,  "as  if  the 
time  has  really  come  when  you  have  got  to  stop  thinking 
of  yourself,  working  for  yourself,  trying  to  please  yourself." 

Dwelling  on  this  thought,  and,  at  moments,  strangely 
happy,  she  fell  asleep. 


XXVII 

1 

i 

THE  DAT  THAT   WAS  PERFECT;   AND  ITS  ENDING 

SHE  awakened  before  the  early  spring  day  reached  her 
windows  through  the  grimy  air  of  London — awakened 
with  a  thrill  of  that  wild  uncertain  joy;  and  lay  for  a 
brief  time  puzzling  out  its  source.  Then,  as  if  with  a 
burst  of  light,  she  remembered. 

They  had  agreed  to  meet  at  nine  o'clock  for  breakfast. 
That  was  hours  off.  She  tried  to  go  to  sleep  again,  but 
could  not;  and  so,  reading  a  little,  thinking  a  great  deal, 
busying  herself  at  straightening  out  the  many  articles  in 
her  trunk  and  bags,  she  saw  the  rosy  sunrise  through  the 
smoke,  and  watched  the  day  creep  with  infinite  deliberation 
into  its  morning  of  activity. 

At  that,  she  was  down  at  half  past  eight.  She  could  not 
wait  longer.  There  was  a  chance  that  he  might  be  early, 
too ;  and  she  felt  that  she  must  see  him  at  the  earliest  pos- 
sible moment,  and  with  him  take  up  again  the  story  of  their 
love.  Without  him,  it  was  too  unreal  to  be  borne. 

He  was  early — earlier  than  she ! 

She  saw  him  sitting  comfortably  in  the  lounge,  holding 
up  a  morning  newspaper,  but  gazing  straight  over  the  top 
of  it  at  the  blank  wall. 

She  suppressed  an  impulse  to  laugh  aloud;  then  moved 
quietly  toward  him,  coming  around  behind  the  table,  hop- 
ing to  surprise  him.  But  he  heard,  and  was  up  on  the 

373 


374  THE    HONEY   BEE 

instant.  And  when  he  had  her  hand  in  both  of  his,  and 
his  e}res  were  on  hers,  she  knew  that  it  was  all  true,  and  sat 
beside  him  with  a  sigh  of  deep  contentment. 

"I'm  glad  you  were  early,  Harris,"  said  she,  gently. 
"I've  been  waiting  for  hours." 

He  smiled.  "So  have  I,  Hilda.  Why  didn't  you  call  me 
up  ?  We  could  have  taken  a  walk." 

"I  didn't  want  to  disturb  you." 

He  merely  continued  smiling,  in  his  quizzical,  pleasantly 
humorous  way.  And  he  was  looking  at  her,  very  steadily. 
"Don't  mind  if  I  stare,  child.  I've  been  trying  to  see  you 
just  about  all  night,  and  couldn't  seem  to  get  you  before 
my  eyes." 

"Oh,  Harris !"  she  cried  softly,  flushing — "Neither  could 
I  see  you !  Isn't  it  dreadful  ?" 

"I  wouldn't  call  it  dreadful.    It  is  natural  enough." 

She  glanced  around.  The  room  was  empty,  except  for 
an  old  gentleman  at  the  newspaper  rack.  She  swiftly  ex- 
tended her  hand.  He  took  it  in  his,  bent  over  it,  kissed  it. 

Hilda  smiled  dreamily,  and  looked  away. 

"Come,"  said  he.  "I  think  we  had  better  go  out  to 
breakfast." 

When  they  had  found  seats  and  given  their  order,  he 
said: 

"By  the  way,  Hilda,  I  sent  a  note  out  to  Priest's  house 
last  night,  after  you  went  up-stairs,  asking  him  to  look 
me  up  here  this  morning." 

"Who  is  Priest,  Harris?" 

"My  solicitor  here  in  London.  I  thought  of  some  rather 
important  business  that  I  want  him  to  arrange.  And  then 
I  want  him  to  meet  you — for  certain  reasons.  You  don't 
mind,  dear?" 

•"Of  course  not,  Harris." 


THE    HONEY   BEE  375 

"I  shall  be  through  with  him  at  ten  or  ten-thirty.  After 
that  I  thought  you  might  enjoy  a  motor  ride,  to  Brighton, 
or  Windsor,  or  perhaps  to  one  of  the  Cathedral  towns.  We 
can  come  back  in  the  afternoon.  Would  you  like  it?" 

"Oh,  yes,  dear !    I  should  love  it !" 

"Very  well.  We  will  do  that.  I  want  this  to  be  a  par- 
ticularly pleasant  day,  Hilda.  Because — " 

Her  eyes  sought  his  face,  questioning. 

Still  he  hesitated.  So,  with  a  sudden  small  anxiety,  she 
asked — 

"Why  the  emphasis  on  to-day,  Harris  ?" 

"Because,  dear,  we  are  a  couple  of  children,  you  know." 

"Yes." 

"We  are  proving  that.  And  we  simply  must  not  be  so 
close,  and  so  far  from  every  one  else — right  now.  We 
agreed  to  separate,  dear." 

She  made  no  reply  to  this. 

"We  want  our  great  life  experience  to  be  perfect,  Hilda." 

"Yes,  Harris — we  do,  of  course." 

"So  let  us—" 

"I  know,  dear,"  she  murmured. 

"We  can  come  back  and  dine  together.  We  will  have  a 
beautiful  day — a  wonderful  day.  And  then — " 

She  raised  her  eyes  again. 

— "we  must  plan  definitely — before  night.  One  of  us 
must  go  away  from  London  to-night.  No  more  risks, 
dear." 

She  soberly  inclined  her  head. 

"And  I  think,  to  put  this  thing  where  no  one  in  the 
world  can  ever  raise  a  question  to  cloud  your  happiness, 
one  of  us  should  take  the  first  ship  for  home.  It  doesn't 
much  matter  which  one." 

Again  she  merely  inclined  her  head.    She  would  do  as 


376  THE    HONEY   BEE 

lie  wished — whatever  he  might  wish.  Life  was  very  strange. 
And  in  her  new  spirit  of  submission  she  did  not  know  her- 
self, could  not  think  for  herself.  .  .  .  Not  that  it  mat- 
tered. Her  life  was  his. 

Mr.  Priest  called  before  they  were  through  with  break- 
fast, and  Doreyn  brought  him  out  to  their  table.  He  was 
a  square-faced  man,  not  young,  with  a  long  nose  and  nega- 
tive gray  eyes.  And  like  most  men  who  transact  business 
in  the  heart  of  London,  he  carried  a  high  hat. 

After  a  few  moments  of  rather  non-committal  conversa- 
tion, Hilda  left  the  two  men  to  their  business.  She  had 
more  than  an  hour  on  her  hands.  And  as  the  day  was 
pleasant,  and  the  outside  air  enticing,  she  walked  around 
to  the  American  Express  office  and  asked  for  mail.  There 
was  a  letter  from  home,  addressed  in  the  familiar,  rather 
cramped  hand  of  her  mother.  It  had  been  forwarded  from 
Paris. 

She  did  not  open  it  at  once ;  for  the  sight  of  it,  and  the 
feeling  of  it  in  her  hand  brought  an  odd  reaction.  She 
had  walked  with  an  extraordinary  lightness  of  foot,  as  of 
heart,  from  the  hotel.  Grimy  old  London  had  taken  on  a 
peculiar  beauty  before  her  eyes.  There  was  joy  in  her 
heart.  But  now  this  fine  buoyancy  had  suddenly  left  her. 

She  walked  slowly,  waiting  for  her  poise  to  return. 
There  seemed  no  good  reason  why  these  sudden  thoughts 
of  her  mother  should  be  disturbing.  She  was  doing  noth- 
ing wrong — unless  it  was  wrong  to  accept  the  deep  and 
lasting  love  of  a  really  good  man.  There  was  not  even  any 
inherent  evil  in  divorce.  The  thing  happened,  all  the  time, 
among  high  and  low.  Surely,  where  groping  individuals 
had  done  their  best,  had  tested  themselves  to  the  limit  of 
human  endurance,  it  was  not  wrong  to  seize  on  happiness. 
She  told  herself,  with  a  sudden  little  uprush  of  passionate 


THE    HONEY   BEE  377 

feeling,  that  human  beings  need  happiness — are  not  com- 
plete without  it. 

She  read  the  letter  as  she  walked  across  Trafalgar  Square 
and  along  the  Strand,  glancing  up  from  moment  to  mo- 
ment to  pick  a  way  through  the  hurrying  swarms  of  people. 
As  she  read,  the  atmosphere  of  her  girlhood  home  recreated 
itself  in  her  thoughts.  And  though  her  spirit  rebelled, 
though  she  told  herself  that  her  mother's  rather  narrow 
prejudices  were  no  more  reasonable  than  anybody's  preju- 
dices, still  she  could  not  shake  off  the  thoughts  that  kept 
stirring — stirring.  She  knew  that  she  could  never  tell  her 
mother  the  circumstances  of  her  coming  to  London  or  the 
moods  that  had  brought  her  clean  out  of  her  old  conven- 
tional self.  Yet  it  had  not  se'emed  wrong.  The  hours 
during  which  she  had  been  brought  to  the  great  impulse 
to  give,  without  question,  without  bargaining — just  to  give 
— had  been  the  most  exalted  of  her  life.  They  were  hours 
of  inspiration.  She  seemed  to  have  touched  fineness,  no- 
bility. .  .  .  But  there  was,  after  all,  a  conflict.  Her 
mother's  attitude  of  mind,  and  the  news  the  letter  brought, 
intensified  that  conflict.  ...  It  was  very  puzzling. 

"You  are  making  a  good  long  stay  of  it,  Hilda,"  her 
mother  wrote,  in  part.  "I  do  hope  you  will  soon  feel  well. 
If  I  worry  a  little  about  you,  as  about  us  all,  if  I  wonder 
now  and  then  what  new  influences  may  be  entering  your 
life,  and  what  progress  you  may  be  making  toward  real 
health,  you  must  forgive  me.  A  mother  thinks  much. 
Sometimes  I  wish  that  you,  too,  had  been  a  mother,  Hilda, 
for  I  am  sure  that  we  would  be  closer  then,  you  and  I.  Not 
that  I  mean  to  complain,  however !  I  am  sure  that  one  of 
these  days  you  will  feel  the  impulse  to  sit  down  and  write 
me  a  good  long  letter  that  will  bring  us  in  touch  again. 

"What  I  really  started  out  to  tell  you  to-day  is  that  Mar- 
gie is  announcing  her  engagement  to  John.  They  will 


378  THE   HOXEY   BEE 

probably  be  married  in  the  autumn — October  or  November. 
I  gave  up  my  last  opposition  a  week  ago  or  more.  I  find 
that  Margie's  heart  is  set  on  it.  And  since  John  has  come 
to  feel  at  home  about  the  house  I  like  him  rather  better. 
He  has  the  McGonigle  chin — and  it  is  weak!  If  I  hadn't 
known  his  father  and  his  Uncle  Everett  perhaps  I  shouldn't 
put  so  much  emphasis  on  that  chin.  I  don't  seem  able  to 
help  it.  Margie  says,  'What  if  marriage  is  a  chance, 
mother?  Isn't  it  a  chance  that  everybody  has  to  take? 
Can  any  other  person  take  it  for  him  ?  Didn't  you  take  it — 
and  when  you  married  could  you  possibly  see  how  well  it 
was  going  to  turn  out  ?  Can't  you  see  that  I've  got  to  fol- 
low my  own  feelings,  just  as  the  others  do,  just  as  you  did !' 
There  is  no  reply  that  one  can  make  to  that,  of  course. 
And  I  finally  decided  to  surrender.  I  know  it  is  what  you 
would  have  advised  if  you  had  been  here.  And  now  I  am 
doing  what  little  I  can  to  help  start  her  off  happily.  I 
must  say,  John  seems  steady  enough  these  days.  He  has  a 
pretty  good  job  with  the  Walker- Wills  people,  and  Mr. 
Wills  told  me  last  night  that  they  are  going  to  increase  his 
salary  when  he  marries.  Which  is  something. 

"Margie  has  never  forgotten  that  'coppery  green'  silk 
you  promised  to  bring  her,  that  you  thought  would  go  so 
well  with  her  hair.  I  suppose  you  couldn't  very  well  send 
it  on  account  of  the  customs.  But  surely  you  will  be  com- 
ing home  before  fall.  You  would  come  for  the  wedding, 
anyway." 

Hilda  walked  past  the  hotel  without  turning  in.  It  was 
not  yet  ten-thirty.  And  the  difficulty  of  reconciling  these 
conflicting  aspects  of  her  life  was  not,  at  the  moment,  grow- 
ing less. 

But  finally  she  gave  up,  hurried  back  to  the  hotel,  and 
hunted  almost  feverishly  about  the  halls  and  the  lounge 
for  Doreyn.  She  found  him  just  as  he  was  bidding  good-by 
to  the  solicitor.  And  in  her  spirit  she  clung  to  him.  The 
very  sight  of  his  shrewd  quiet  face  cleared  away  some  part 


THE    HONEY   BEE  379 

of  her  confusion.  Something  of  the  wonder  of  his  love 
began  again  to  glow  in  her  heart;  so  much  so  that  he  saw 
in  her  eyes,  when  he  turned  to  her,  only  a  soft  eagerness, 
and  something  of  the  astonishing  timidity  and  passiveness 
that  he,  unwitting,  had  brought  out  in  her. 

"I've  ordered  the  car  around,  dear,"  he  said,  walking 
with  her  toward  the  lift.  And  he  added,  in  a  low  voice, 
"You  are  beautiful,  Hilda." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  between  sheer  happiness  and 
an  impulse  to  protest.  Then  her  lids  dropped;  and  she 
stepped  into  the  lift,  flushing,  with  a  shy  little  song  in 
her  heart. 

"Bring  a  heavy  coat,"  he  called  after  her.  And  she  nod- 
ded, unsmiling. 

They  went  to  Windsor — out  through  Eichmond  and, 
where  the  road  permitted,  along  the  Thames.  They  sat 
comfortably  bundled  up  in  the  rear  seat  of  a  big  touring 
car,  holding  hands,  smiling  a  good  deal,  saying  many 
things  that  would  not  bear  repeating,  and  gazing  at  the 
peaceful  countryside  and  the  drowsy  villages  with  eyes  that 
saw  it  all  in  their  own  golden  light. 

Sometimes  he  would  lift  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  hold  it 
there,  reverently.  Never  had  Hilda  known  such  happiness, 
such  complete  peace  of  the  spirit.  If,  at  moments,  she 
thought  of  her  mother  and  Margie,  it  was  with  a  high  affec- 
tion. Her  doubts  had  gone,  as  swiftly  as  they  had  come. 
Doreyn  it  was,  of  course,  who  was  working  this  miracle  in 
her.  She  knew  this,  and  gloried  in  the  fact.  When,  on  a 
quiet  stretch  of  road,  between  high  hedgerows,  he  kissed 
her,  she  found  herself  clinging  to  his  collar,  resting  her 
forehead  against  his  cheek,  while  the  tears  came  to  her  eyes 
out  of  sheer  feeling. 

They  had  luncheon  at  the  old  White  Hart  in  Windsor. 


380  THE   HONEY   BEE 

Then  they  spent  an  hour  wandering  about  a  fairy-land  that, 
in  moments  of  relative  lucidity,  Hilda  knew  for  the  grounds 
and  gardens  of  "Windsor  Castle. 

They  returned  by  way  of  Stoke  Poges  and  "Oxbridge, 
entering  London  by  a  different  road  from  the  one  they  had 
followed  on  the  outward  journey. 

Suddenly,  as  the  car  moved  swiftly  along  Bayswater 
Koad,  Hilda  sat  erect,  gripped  Doreyn's  hand  more  tightly, 
and  looked  off  to  her  right,  where  a  park  stretched  as  far 
as  they  could  see,  under  great  trees. 

"Harris!" 

"Yes,  child?" 

"Isn't  this  Kensington  Gardens  ?" 

"Surely." 

"I  want  to  get  out  here." 

He  spoke  to  the  chauffeur. 

"And  I  want  you  to  let  him  go,  Harris.  "We  can  have 
tea  here,  and  go  back  in  a  cab  or  a  bus." 

When  they  were  walking  in  through  the  gate — Lancaster 
Gate — she  explained.  "I  haven't  been  here  since  my  first 
visit  to  London,  Harris.  I  loved  it  then." 

So  they  walked  slowly  along  the  broad  path  toward  the 
open-air  restaurant.  The  late  afternoon  sun  threw  long 
shadows  between  the  huge  oaks  on  the  carpet  of  close- 
clipped  turf.  A  flock  of  misty  sheep  moved  slowly  across 
a  gray-green  vista.  And  children  were  everywhere — rug- 
ged, rosy  young  Britons,  every  one,  hard  at  the  childish 
business  of  life  in  this  wide  calm  playground  over  which 
to  the  child  mind,  reigns  and  broods  the  wistful  spirit  of 
little  Peter  Pan. 

They  found  the  statue  of  the  fairy  hero  of  the  Gardens, 
and  stood  before  it  for  several  long  moments.  Hilda 


THE    HOXEY   BEE  381 

seemed  disinclined  to  talk;  but  her  hand  stole  into  his  as 
they  stood  there. 

They  walked  by  the  Round  Pond,  and  paused  to  watch 
the  children  sailing  their  boats.  A  chubby  three-year-old, 
with  a  shock  of  bright  yellow  curls,  had  a  very  small  craft 
which  he  was  trying  to  navigate  clear  of  the  bank  by 
means  of  a  stick.  He  was  very  serious  about  the  business, 
and  stood  well  back  from  the  water's  edge,  desperately  anx- 
ious to  preserve  his  balance. 

There  were  dreams  in  Hilda's  eyes.  Doreyn  watched 
her,  soberly. 

"Oh,  it  has  capsized!" 

She  murmured  this  exclamation,  then  hurried  forward. 

The  attendant  nurse  was  moving  over,  leaving  a  still 
younger  child  seated  on  the  grass.  Seeing  that  Hilda  had 
caught  the  boy's  blouse  in  time  to  prevent  further  eventu- 
alities, she  returned. 

Hilda,  laughing  softly,  and  holding  the  chubby  little  fel- 
low very  close,  fished  for  the  small  yacht  with  her  free  hand, 
shook  the  water  out  of  it,  and  set  it  afloat  again.  Then, 
moved  by  a  swift  warm  impulse,  she  cuddled  the  boy  and 
pressed  his  soft  cheek  against  her  own.  He  responded  gal- 
lantly, with  a  kiss  of  wide  area  and  a  hug,  the  latter  ac- 
companied by  a  grunt  of  sober  intensity.  Then  he  freed 
himself,  and  looked  about  for  his  stick. 

There  was  a  choke  in  Hilda's  throat.  For  a  little  time, 
until  she  could  recover  her  poise,  she  crouched  there,  fol- 
lowing the  child  with  eyes  that  had  a  hungry  light  in  them. 

After  she  had  joined  Doreyn  and  they  had  started  to  walk 
away,  she  said,  half  bruskly : 

"They  ought  to  be  more  careful  about  these  children/' 

To  which  remark  he  made  no  reply. 


383  T;HE  HOXEY  BEE 

They  sat  at  one  of  the  outdoor  tables  until  the  late  Eng- 
lish twilight  was  closing  down  about  them. 

There  were  not  many  persons  in  the  Gardens  now.  The 
lights  came  out,  and  set  their  reflections  rippling  softly  in 
the  Serpentine,  as  these  two,  arm  in  arm,  walked  slowly 
back  toward  Lancaster  Gate;  pausing  here  and  there  to^ 
gaze  at  the  still  shimmering  water  or  at  the  deeply  mysteri- 
ous shadows  beneath  the  oak  trees.  Hilda  said  little,  but 
pressed  close  against  his  arm. 

Doreyn  felt  her  mood,  and  did  not  allow  words  of  his 
to  intrude  on  it.  He  was  thinking  of  the  mystery  and 
wonder  that  must  stir  in  a  childless  woman  when  she 
permits  her  thoughts  to  range  ahead  into  the  unknown 
beauty  of  life,  into  that  magical  poignant  region  of  the 
spirit  that  has  been  explored  by  countless  millions  of  women 
and  that  yet  must  always  remain  uncharted  for  the  new  in- 
dividual. 

Never  before  had  he  known  her  to  be  so  free  from  self- 
consciousness,  so  naturally  and  completely  herself. 

She  stopped  once,  by  the  Serpentine,  and  inclined  her 
head  toward  a  mass  of  dark  shadows  in  the  water. 

"That  must  be  Peter  Pan's  Island,"  she  murmured.  And 
she  pressed  his  arm  against  her  breast. 

At  the  gate,  before  entering  the  glaring  honking  reality 
of  Bayswater  Road,  she  turned  and  looked  back.  By  the 
light  from  the  roadway  he  saw  now  that  her  eyes  were  wet. 
And  he  stood  there,  looking  at  her,  with  a  prayer  in  his 
heart.  This  splendid  woman,  whom  he  had  loved  so  deeply 
and  so  long,  had  on  this  day  and  evening,  in  particular 
during  this  twilight  hour,  bared  her  very  soul  to  him — and 
that  without  a  direct  word.  He  was  thinking  of  all  that 
this  meant !  and  of  a  man's  instinct  to  protect  the  woman 
he  loves  when  she  is  most  woman  I 


Hilda,  laughing  softly,  set  it  afloat  again 


THE    HOXEY   BEE  383 

At  the  curb  she  looked  up  at  him,  hesitated,  and  then 
laughed  a  very  little. 

"Harris,  dear !" 

"Yes,  child." 

"Don't  get  a  taxi.    I  want  to  ride  back  on  a  bus." 

He  smiled,  and  in  a  moment  hailed  one.  They  found  an 
empty  seat  on  the  top.  Other  couples  were  up  there. 
And  all  about  them,  as  the  clumsy  vehicle  shook  and  rattled 
and  plunged  forward,  the  traffic  of  London  surged  and 
roared.  Yet  they  were  alone  ...  in  the  clouds. 

"I  wanted  to  be  high,"  she  whispered,  nestling  close 
to  htm. 

"I  know,  dear." 

"And,  Harris !" 

"Yes,  girl?" 

"I'm  going  to  dress  up  for  dinner — in  my  prettiest.  You 
must  dress,  too." 

His  arm,  on  the  back  seat,  pressed  close  about  her. 

"It  has  been  a  perfect  day,  Harris." 

"Perfect,  dear." 

"It  was  so  many  years  in  coming,  Harris." 

He  smiled  now. 

An  hour  later  they  seated  themselves  at  a  small  table  in 
a  corner  of  the  main  dining  room  of  the  great  hotel.  She 
was  dressed  as  she  had  dressed  on  a  certain  other  evening 
that  was  and  would  be  memorable  in  her  life,  as  in  the  life 
of  Blink  Moran — in  the  gown  that  had  come  from  Callot's, 
and  about  her  shoulders  the  opera  wrap  of  old  rose  fringed 
and  lined  with  snowy  fur.  It  pleased  and  thrilled  her  to 
see  the  frank  admiration  that  was  written  on  his  face  when- 
ever he  looked  at  her.  She  felt  that  she  was  not  worthy  of 
him ;  but  it  was  comforting  that  he  thought  her  worthy. 
The  music,  the  flowers,  the  glitter  of  silver  and  glass,  the 


384  THE   HONEY   BEE 

brilliant  gowns  and  the  general  sense  of  movement — all 
familiar  enough  to  the  woman  she  had  been — came  to  her 
as  an  environment  stirringly  new.  Everything  was  won- 
derful; nothing  was  quite  real.  She  was  nibbling  at  food 
of  exquisite  fairy  making !  she  was  sipping  of  nectar. 

"With  the  coffee,  however,  a  shadow  came. 

"Harris,  dear — I  want  to  ask  you  something." 

He  waited.    She  hesitated. 

"Say  it,  dear!" 

"Well,  you  spoke  of  planning    .    .    ." 

The  shadow  touched  him  now.  They  looked  at  each 
other,  soberly. 

"That  is  right,  dear.    "We  must  plan." 

"But  we  can't  go  to-night,  either  of  us." 

""Why  not?" 

"This  is  Saturday  night — there  isn't  a  ship  until  Tues- 
day or  Wednesday." 

"Oh,  of  course  you  couldn't  sail  to-night.  But  I  could 
leave  London." 

"You  could,"  she  replied,  quietly,  <cbut  you  aren't  go- 
ing to?" 

He  looked  his  question  at  this.  Hilda  leaned  forward 
on  the  table,  in  one  of  her  swift  practical  moods. 

"See  here,  Harris,  I  have  been  thinking — all  day.  I  sup- 
pose you  are  right  enough.  We  shall  both  feel  better  ten. 
years  from  now,  if  we  plan  all  this  in  the  best  way.  Yes, 
you  are  right  enough.  But — " 

"What,  dear?" 

"It  is  hard  to  say." 

"Ought  anything  to  be  hard — hetween  us." 

"No."  She  flushed  a  little,  very  faintly;  then  brought 
her  hesitant  thoughts  under  control.  "It  is  this,  Harris. 
I  don't  seem  to  like  the  idea  of  running  away  from  each 


THE   HONEY   BEE  385 

other.  "We  are  children,  as  you  said.  But  in  another  sense 
we  are  far  from  children.  .  .  .  Don't  you  see — here 
we  are!" 

"Yes,"  he  mused,  "here  we  are !" 

"You  can't  tell  what  is  going  to  happen  in  this  life,  Har- 
ris. You  know  that,  much  better  than  I.  And  since  we  are 
here,  and  it  is  so  wonderful,  why  can't  we  take  the  few 
days  that  are  really  ours  ?  Oh,  I'll  go  Tuesday,  or  Wednes- 
day, whenever  there's  a  good  ship !  I  will,  Harris !  But 
why  not  have  just  these  few  more  days  ?  Just  being  happy, 
and  getting  acquainted;  picking  up  a  little  stock  of  mem- 
ories to  have  by  us  during  the  many  months  we  shall  be 
apart." 

"You  are  very  persuasive,  dear." 

"But  isn't  it  right— fair  ?" 

"Perhaps  it  is." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  silly  to  throw  these  days  away?  As  if 
we  were — well,  afraid !" 

"Perhaps  it  would." 

"Admit  it,  Harris !" 

"Well,  then— it  would." 

"Good!  That's  settled.  Now,  Harris,  I  want  you  to 
take  me  somewhere  this  evening — theater,  or  opera,  or 
something." 

His  smile  broke  bounds  now — the  smile  that  she  loved. 
And  she  sat  watching  it,  devouring  it,  leaning  a  little  for- 
ward on  her  elbows,  her  lips  slightly  parted,  a  clear  high 
color  in  her  cheeks,  her  gray-blue  eyes  radiant. 

They  stopped  at  the  hotel  office  to  leave  their  keys. 

Hilda  moved  on  to  the  revolving  door,  and  waited. 

Doreyn  was  slow  in  following.  Finally  she  turned.  He 
was  moving  toward  her,  but  very  slowly.  His  face  was 
grave,  his  lips  tightly  compressed.  In  his  two  hands  before 


386  THE   HONEY   BEE 

him  was  a  letter,  which  must  have  been  handed  him  by 
the  clerk. 

She  felt  a  curiously  sudden  sinking  of  the  heart.  He 
was  profoundly  disturbed — that  was  plain  enough. 

She  hesitated,  uncertain  what  to  do,  suddenly  reminded 
of  the  very  large  part  of  his  life  in  which  she  had  had  no 
share.  Finally  she  moved  toward  him. 

He  hardly  heard  her.  She  even  stood  beside  him  for  a 
moment  before  he  raised  his  eyes — still  holding  the  envel- 
ope squarely  before  him. 

"Hilda,"  he  said,  very  soberly.  "I  am  sorry,  dear.  I 
didn't  realize."  He  slipped  the  letter  into  the  pocket  of 
his  overcoat.  "Come,  we  must  be  starting." 

Her  hand  rested  on  his  arm,  and  held  him. 

"Come,  dear,"  said  he  again. 

If  he  had  looked  at  her  he  would  have  seen  confusion  in 
her  face,  confusion  that  was  rapidly  resolving  into  firm- 
ness. But  he  did  not  look  at  her. 

"ISTo,  Harris."  Her  voice  was  not  wholly  steady.  "No, 
dear.  I  want  you  to  read  that  letter  before  we  go." 

"Oh,  that !  that  is  nothing,  child." 

"Harris !  I  couldn't  help  seeing  the  handwriting.  You 
forget  that  I  used  to  see  it  a  good  deal.  And  I'm  quite  sure 
it  is  from — Mrs.  Doreyn." 

"Well— it  is." 

"We  can't  go  out,  now,  the  way  it  has  made  you  feel — •- 
with  that  letter  unopened  in  your  pocket.  We  can't, 
Harris !" 

He  made  no  reply.  But  the  sadness  in  his  face  fairly 
hurt  her. 

"Wait,  dear,"  she  managed  to  say,  "I'm  going  up  to  my 
room.  I'll  be  down  in  a  moment.  I'll  look  for  you  in  the 
lounge." 


THE    HONEY   BEE 

He  stood  moodily  gazing  after  her  until  the  lift  carried 
her  up  out  of  sight.  Then  he  slowly  drew  the  envelope 
from  his  pocket,  tore  it  open,  and  took  out  the  enclosures. 
One  of  these,  a  newspaper  clipping,  fluttered  to  the  floor. 

A  page  sprang  forward,  picked  it  up,  handed  it  to  him. 

And  Doreyn,  with  a  face  in  which  the  lines  appeared  to 
be  settling  more  deeply,  with  eyes  that  had  a  baffled  look 
about  them,  read  the  clipping,  and  the  short  note,  the  very 
short  note,  in  which  it  had  been  wrapped. 


XXVIII 

HOW  LETTEES  CAME,  AND  MADE  IT  PLAIN  THAT  THE  LIFE 
ONE  HAS  LIVED  FOLLOWS  ONE  LIKE  A  SHADOW.  ALSO 
HOW  HILDA  TAPS  AT  A  DOOK  ;  AND  HOW  SHE  COMES  TO  SIT 
BY  THE  WINDOW,  READING,  WHILE  A  MAN  SMILES  IN  HIS 
SLEEP 

WHEN"  Hilda  reached  the  door  of  her  room,  she  dis- 
covered that  she  had  not  brought  her  key.  Further- 
more, she  did  not  know  why  she  had  come  up-stairs  at  all. 
The  one  fact  that  she  did  seem  to  understand  was  that  she 
had  to  be  somewhere  else  while  he  was  reading  the  letter. 

She  walked,  trying  to  think,  to  the  window  at  the  end  of 
the  long  hall.  The  coming  of  that  letter  had  shattered  the 
bubble  of  her  dreams,  just  at  the  climax  of  her  one  perfect 
day.  The  reaction  was  violent;  was  still,  in  fact,  beyond 
her  control. 

It  was  not,  surely,  the  mere  fact  that  a  letter  had  come 
from  his  wife ;  nor  the  fact  that  she  had  suddenly  been  re- 
minded of  her  own  misgivings  of  the  morning,  when  the 
letter  from  her  mother  had  stirred  up  doubts  in  her  mind 
— queer,  conventional,  very  puzzling  doubts  about  her  sud- 
den coming  to  London  and  about  divorce.  It  could  not  be 
these  things ;  for,  only  this  morning,  she  had  escaped  from 
those  doubts  by  turning  to  him.  He  had  been  her  rock 

388 


THE    HOXEY   BEE  389 

amid  the  swirling  bewilderments  of  life.  Merely  by  look- 
ing at  him,  by  feeling  herself  close  to  him,  where  she  could 
catch  at  the  gentle  shrewdness  of  his  eyes,  the  quizzical, 
half-humorous  steadiness  of  his  smile,  she  had  been  reas- 
.sured.  She  had  felt  his  steadiness,  his  sureness.  Come  to 
think  of  it,  it  was  his  character,  as  it  was  his  love  for  her- 
self, that  had  been  her  refuge,  had  made  it  all  seem  right. 

Gradually,  during  the  course  of  a  short  five  minutes, 
standing  there  by  the  window  at  the  end  of  the  long  cor- 
ridor, she  came  to  see  this  pretty  clearly.  Her  one  point  of 
strength  had  been  his  sureness.  Xow,  at  the  first  clear  sign 
of  uncertainty,  of  misgivings,  on  his  part,  her  whole  dream- 
structure  had  collapsed. 

It  hurt.  She  was  bewildered.  And  such  a  little  thing 
had  brought  about  this  great  change.  She  pressed  her  hand 
to  her  heart  as  she  stood  there.  It  seemed  to  her  that  her 
hands  were  cold. 

She  found  herself  recalling  his  wife  and  the  two  girls. 
She  could  remember  just  how  they  used  to  look  when  they 
came  into  the  office — the  children,  very  pretty,  and  always 
rather  expensively  dressed;  Mrs.  Doreyn,  a  large  woman, 
with  a  strong  chin  and  a  quietly  positive  manner  of  speak- 
ing. She  remembered,  too,  how  bitter  she  had  always  felt 
at  the  realization  of  her  own  doubtful  position  in  that  of- 
fice and  in  his  life.  In  this  recollection  there  was  now, 
quite  suddenly,  all  the  old  pain.  She  fell  to  wondering 
about  the  girls — what  they  might  look  like  now ;  what  sort 
of  young  women  they  had  grown  up  to  be.  He  must  be 
thinking  of  them  at  this  very  moment.  For  how  could  a 
man  help  it !  And  he  was  peculiarly  the  sort  that  would ! 
.  .  .  She  even  found  herself  trying  to  build  up  mental 
pictures  of  the  thousand  and  one  memories  that  must  now 
be  rushing  up  to  his  mind's  eye. 


390  THE   HOXEY   BEE 

Then  suddenly  she  felt  ashamed.  She  had  lost  her  head, 
had  run  away  from  him.  She  went  straight  to  the  lift  cage 
and  rang. 

He  was  sitting  in  a  far  corner  of  the  lounge,  watching 
the  door. 

He  rose,  and  waited  for  her  to  join  him.  He  looked  very 
grave ;  and  tired — particularly  tired  about  the  eyes. 

Her  eyes  sought  his  face  again — and  then  again. 

"I  am  going  to  show  it  to  you,"  he  said,  after  a  little. 
"Since  you  saw  that  I  was  bothered." 

She  did  not  know  how  to  reply  to  this.  Rather  mechan* 
ically,  when  he  opened  the  envelope  and  handed  her  the  two 
enclosures,  she  took  them. 

She  glanced  down  at  them,  and  then  read  them — the 
newspaper  clipping  first.  It  was  an  announcement,  on  the 
part  of  Mrs.  Harris  Doreyn,  of  the  Lake  Shore  Drive,  of 
the  engagement  of  her  daughter,  Mary,  to  ...  she 
did  not  read  further. 

After  a  moment  of  hesitation,  of  trying  to  think,  she  un- 
folded the  other  paper.  On  it  was  written,  in  pencil,  the 
words : 

"Perhaps  this  will  interest  you,  Harris  1" 

There  was  no  signature.    And  that  was  all. 

She  gave  them  to  him;  then  leaned  back  and,  for  a  mo- 
ment, closed  her  eyes. 

They  were  seated  side  by  side  on  a  divan,  just  as  they 
had  sat  on  the  preceding  evening,  after  their  return  from 
the  quiet  little  restaurant  in  Soho,  after  the  kiss !  .  .  . 
Her  hand  did  not  seek  his  now.  She  felt  that  there  were 
barriers — barriers  through  which  or  around  which  she  had 
stolen  for  a  few  wonderful  hours — but  through  which  now 
she  could  not  reach  him. 

"It  is  rather  strange,"  he  was  saying,  soberly    .    .    « 


THE   HOXEY   BEE  391 

"this  really  ought  to  emphasize  my  freedom,  I  suppose.  At 
least,  it  is  one  more  of  the  old  responsibilities  removed.  I 
don't  know  why  it  upset  me  so."  He  mused.  "But  I  sup- 
pose the  feeling  of  responsibility  for  a  child  that  one  has 
reared  never  really  leaves  one.  .  .  .  And  then  there 
are  the  habits  we  form.  We  think  we  can  direct  our  lives, 
and  all  the  time  we  are  making  habits,  building  ourselves 
into  situations  that  are  our  lives,  really." 

"I  know,"  she  murmured,  "I  have  habits,  too." 

"Of  course,  child!" 

He  was  steady  again !  She  felt  some  part  of  her  sureness 
returning. 

"Even  during  this  day,  Harris — at  moments,  now  and 
then — I  haven't  understood  it! — my  habits  of  work,  the 
store  and  all,  have  come  up  in  my  thoughts  as  if  they  were 
something  solid  there." 

"They  are,"  said  he— "just  that." 

She  leaned  forward,  very  tense ;  and  clasped  her  hands  on 
her  knee. 

"Harris—" 

"Yes,  child!" 

"Are  we  all  wrong  ?" 

He  shook  his  head,  slowly.    "No.    Not  all  wrong." 

She  was  thinking  hard.  "You  know,  Harris,  when  I  saw 
how  just  that  handwriting  affected  you  .  .  ." 

"It  was  having  it  come  just  at  this  time — at  the  climax 
of  our  perfect  day.  And  the  surprise  of  it.  For  she  hadn't 
written  before." 

"I  know.  But  when  I  saw — well,  all  my  doubts  came 
back.  I'll  be  honest,  Harris.  They  did.  Everything  was 
so  wonderful — and  then  it — well,  it  crashed." 

"Yes.  Our  day  ended  then.  We  won't  go  to  the  theater 
now," 


393  THE   HONEY   BEE 

She  shook  Her  head.  "We  couldn't.  It  feels  so  different. 
,  .  .  Harris,  are  you  sure?  Can  you  let  them  go  like 
this,  after  all  the  years  you've  spent  ?"  She  paused,  com- 
pressed her  lips;  and  the  tears  brimmed  her  eyes.  She 
groped  for  his  hand,  and  found  it.  "Harris,  up-stairs  there 
' — it  seemed  to  me — all  at  once — that  maybe  I  ought—" 

"Better  say  it  right  out,  dear/' 

" — maybe  I  ought  to  give  you  up." 

He  held  her  hand  firmly.  For  a  long  moment  he  did  not 
reply.  She  felt  that  he  was  sober  to  the  point  of  sadness. 
But  she  felt  too  that  he  was  strong. 

"No,  Hilda,"  he  said  finally.  "You  must  remember  that 
there  is  nothing  new  in  this.  My  feelings  were  stirred — 
suddenly,  sharply.  They  will  be  stirred,  again.  But  I  have 
faced  all  that  before,  for  years.  I  have  faced  all  of  it.  I 
tried  to  make  it  plain  in  my  letter — the  long  letter." 

"Yea,"  she  said,  slowly,  "that  is  true.  You  did.  Perhaps 
I  haven't  understood." 

He  went  on.  "There  is  a  sober  side  to  such  a  marriage  as 
ours,  Hilda.  It  can't  all  be  such  an  exalted  mood  as  we 
have  been  in  to-day.  We  should  be  thankful  for  that  mood 
— glad  that  it  lasted  so  long." 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

She  gave  him  a  half  smile. 

"Harris,  dear — I  think  I  will  just  go  to  my  room.  To 
be  alone.  Do  you  mind?"  Her  hand  gripped  his  more 
tightly  than  she  was  aware. 

"I  think  it  is  best,  Hilda,"  he  replied.  "Among  other 
things,  don't  forget  that  you  are  tired." 

She  smiled  again,  a  thought  more  successfully. 

"We  can  talk  better  in  the  morning,"  he  added. 

"Yes,"  she  murmured. 

Thus  she  left  him,  still  a  bewildered  woman,  still  shaken ; 


THE   HONEY   BEE  393 

and  went  up  to  her  room  to  sit  long  by  her  window,  gazing 
out  over  the  confusion  of  buildings  that  shelter  the  dra- 
matic confusion  of  lives  that  is  London. 

She  was  down-stairs  before  eight  the  next  morning,  wan- 
dering about  the  empty  lounge,  making  a  pretense  of  look- 
ing through  the  illustrated  weeklies.  This  for  a  quarter- 
hour  or  more.  Then,  thinking  she  might  have  missed  him, 
she  went  to  the  door  of  the  dining-room  and  looked  about 
among  the  scattered  few  who  were  breakfasting  early.  He 
was  not  there. 

She  returned  to  the  lounge  and  tried  to  read  the  morning 
paper.  The  hands  of  her  wrist  watch  moved  slowly  around, 
indicating  half  past  eight,  twenty-five  minutes  to  nine,  a 
quarter  to  nine.  At  every  footfall,  every  rustle,  every  mov- 
ing shadow,  she  raised  her  eyes.  People  came  and  went — 
Americans,  English,  French,  Eussians,  Germans — but  Do- 
reyn  was  not  among  them.  She  found  herself  growing 
nervous;  but  calmed  herself  with  a  deliberate  effort.  He 
had  been  tired.  Doubtless  he  had  overslept.  She  told  her- 
self that  she  was  glad  he  had. 

It  came  to  nine  o'clock — and  past  nine.  She  tossed  her 
paper  on  the  table,  and  sat  erect,  very  tense,  tapping  on  the 
chair-arm  with  light  fingers  and  biting  her  lip.  She  was 
wondering  if  it  would  do  to  telephone  his  room.  .  .  . 
She  decided  against  this. 

Then,  at  half  past  nine,  a  page  came  through  the  lounge 
calling — "Number  two-forty-eight,  please!  Number  two- 
forty-eight!" 

That  was  her  own  room.  She  raised  her  hand.  The  boy 
gave  her  an  envelope  addressed  in  an  unfamiliar  hand- 
writing. She  tore  it  open. 

The  enclosure  was  in  Doreyn's  own  hand,  written  in 
pencil. 


394  THE   HONEY   BEE 

"Very  sorry,  Hilda,  dear,"  it  ran;  "but  I  have  had  an= 
other  little  attack  of  my  old  trouble.  I  think  it  is  not  seri- 
ous this  time,  but  the  doctor  insists  on  keeping  me  quiet 
for  a  few  days  to  guard  against  a  recurrence.  So  I  can't 
come  down.  You  won't  worry,  dear !  I  am  not  so  uncom- 
fortable now.  They  give  me  morphine  while  the  pain  lasts. 
But  the  night  was  rather  bad.  I  want  you  to  go  right  on 
with  your  plans,  but  would  like  to  have  a  glimpse  of  you 
before  you  go.  I  will  work  out  some  scheme  for  seeing  you 
a  little  later  in  the  day." 

Hilda  sat  for  a  time,  reading  and  rereading  this  simple 
note.  Then,  very  sober,  she  went  out  into  the  dining-room 
and  sipped  a  solitary  cup  of  coffee  and  ate  a  little  toast. 

Even  now  he  was  thinking  of  her !  He  would  not  permit 
her  to  see  him  until  he  had  "worked  out  a  scheme !" 

And  he  had  suffered.  The  night  had  been  "rather  bad." 
.  .  .  So  the  excitement  of  their  meeting  had  been  too 
much  for  him ! 

She  went  out  through  the  hall  to  the  revolving  door  and 
looked  out  into  the  courtyard,  and  considered  taking  a 
walk.  She  felt  unsettled,  aimless,  wondering  what  could  be 
the  good  in  making  plans  to  face  life  honestly  and  shape  a 
new  course  if  the  Fates  were  to  step  in  with  new  complica- 
tions. .  .  .  She  was  not  going  away  from  London — 
not  with  him  lying  there  ill.  Of  that  she  was  certain. 

The  situation  was  quite  out  of  her  hands ;  there  appeared 
to  be  nothing  that  she  could  definitely  do. 

Yes,  there  was  one  thing — she  could  keep  close  at  hand, 
in  case  he  should  send  another  message. 

She  moved  away  from  the  door ;  went  back  to  the  lounge. 
It  was  profoundly  disturbing  to  think  of  him  as  lying  there, 
ill,  actually  suffering,  yet  concerned  every  moment  about 
herself.  She  decided  to  make  an  effort  to  reassure  him. 


THE   HONEY   BEE  395 

She  found  a  seat  at  one  of  the  writing  tables,  and  started  a 
note  to  him. 

She  was  curiously  self-conscious  about  this.  She  began  it 
with  a  "Dear  Harris."  This  was  too  cold.  But  she  found 
it  difficult  to  write  anything  that  was  not  cold.  "If  only  we 
had  had  a  little  more  time  together,"  she  thought,  "so  that 
it  would  come  more  naturally." 

There  was  great  tenderness  in  her  heart.  She  had 
reached  the  point  where  no  sacrifice  could  seem  too  much  to 
offer.  It  occurred  to  her  that  now  was  the  time  to  write 
her  heart  out,  to  confirm  all  that  had  been  implied  in  their 
talk,  their  hand-pressures,  their  kisses;  to  say  the  things, 
in  actual,  permanent  black  and  white,  that  would  create  the 
final  deep  glow  of  happiness  in  that  weary  heart  of  his — 
to  say  them  fully,  completely.  It  would  be  a  fine  thing  to 
give  him  a  letter  that  he  could  keep  always,  as  she  purposed 
keeping  the  letter  he  had  written  to  her — that  he  could 
read  from  time  to  time  as  she  purposed  reading  his,  rever- 
ently, as  one  approaches  a  shrine. 

It  would  take  some  little  time  to  write  such  a  letter — < 
hours,  doubtless.  She  could  send  up  at  once  the  few  words 
that  would  reassure  him ;  and  then  set  to  work  on  the  real 
letter.  That  would  give  him  something  to  read,  and  feel, 
and  think  of,  during  the  day. 

She  must  write  such  a  letter  as  she  had  never  written 
during  the  whole  course  of  her  life  thus  far.  Outside  of 
business,  which  was  another  thing,  of  course,  her  letters  had 
always  been  more  or  less  brief  evasions  of  some  sort.  Never, 
never  had  the  opened  her  heart.  It  had  never  been  possible. 

She  wondered  if  it  would  be  possible  now.  ...  It 
must  be  possible !  She  would  drive  herself  to  it — she  had 
will  power  enough  for  that!  For  it  waa  only  by  giving 


396  THE   HONEY   BEE 

what  she  had  never  given  that  she  could  revitalize  him.  In. 
some  way  her  strength  must  be  made  his  strength.  No 
matter  what  direction  their  separate  lives  were  ultimately 
to  take,  no  matter  how  baffling  the  tangle  of  life  in  which 
f)  they  now  found  themselves,  now  was  the  time  when  his 
need  of  her  was  greatest.  And  she  knew,  deep,  deep  in  her 
heart,  that  she  could  never  again  let  him  suffer  alone. 

She  began  the  letter  again,  forgetting,  in  the  intensity  of 
her  inner  struggle,  her  plan  to  send  up  a  brief  note  first. 
She  deliberately  forced  herself  to  write  a  tender  phrase. 
Then  she  read  it,  stared  at  it,  tore  it  up.  It  simply  did  not 
look  natural.  It  seemed  forced.  It  was  not  like  her — she 
didn't  write  such  things. 

There  was  chagrin  in  this  realization.  She  sat  for  a  little 
time  gazing  down  at  the  white  paper  and  tapping  the  end 
of  the  penholder  against  her  firm  chin.  How  to  do  a  thing 
that  it  was  not  in  one's  habits  to  do — that  possibly  it  was 
not  in  one's  nature  to  do — that  was  the  question.  She  had 
never  had  much  confidence  in  words.  Words  counted  for 
little  at  the  Hartman  store,  excepting  when  they  bore  some 
close  relation  to  figures. 

So  there  was  still  ice  to  be  broken !  The  thought  was  dis- 
heartening. 

She  straightened  up  and  looked  out  about  the  room.  She 
was  thinking  intently.  Their  decision,  of  the  evening,  to 
renounce  their  love,  had  not  presupposed  any  such  real 
need  as  had  now  sprung  up.  They  had  reached  the  heights 
and  the  depths  of  life — all  within  one  short  wonderful  day, 
one  perfect  day.  There  had  come  reactions  that  were  over- 
whelming in  their  strength.  And  now,  in  this  new  bewil- 
derment, in  this  fresh  difficulty  in  finding  the  way,  the 
thought  was  developing  in  her  mind  that  perhaps,  after  all, 
the  best  way  to  give  her  life  to  him  would  be  to  give  up  aU 


THE   HONEY   BEE  397 

efforts  to  puzzle  it  out  and  just  do  the  simplest,  most  natu- 
ral thing.  And  the  most  natural  thing  for  Hilda  Wilson 
would  certainly  be,  simply  and  naturally,  to  take  hold. 
Certainly,  in  some  way,  she  would  have  to  give  him  a  fine 
clear  proof  that  her  life  was  his — something  that  he  could 
treasure  in  his  memory  as  long  as  he  should  live.  If  she 
couldn't  write  it,  then  it  would  have  to  take  the  form  of  ac- 
tion, which  was,  after  all,  more  within  the  realm  of  her 
natural  self.  What  she  found  herself  unable  to  write,  she 
would  have  to  do.  .  .  .  Just  so  long  as  it  was  giving, 
not  taking ! 

She  pondered  once  again  the  possibility  of  working  an 
injury  to  him  by  appearing  in  too  close  a  relationship  to 
him.  No  very  serious  problems  arose  on  this  side.  He  was, 
after  all,  moving  for  a  divorce.  His  position  as  a  sober,  ex- 
ceedingly prosperous  man  of  affairs  was  protection  enough 
in  itself ;  for  the  world  protects  men.  And  finally,  his  ill- 
ness. Perhaps  people  would  think  her  a  nurse.  She  was 
not  conscious  of  caring  particularly  about  this,  one  way  or 
the  other.  She  believe^  now  that  she  was  the  one  person  to 
blame  for  his  present  illness,  first  by  permitting  him  to  suf- 
fer so  long  alone,  and  then  by  stirring  him  so  deeply  when 
he  was  unable  to  bear  it.  If  this  was  an  extreme  view,  she 
was  unable  to  think  of  it  as  such.  It  was  a  reflection  of 
her  feelings;  and  her  feelings,  with  very  little  regard  for 
the  reasons  her  conscious  self  might  construct,  were  driving 
her  toward  him  so  straight  and  so  fast  that  not  all  the  bar- 
riers a  hostile  world  might  have  been  able  to  construct 
could  have  kept  her  away  from  him  many  hours  longer. 

She  had  been  scribbling  and  marking  aimlessly  on  tKe 
paper  before  her.  She  tore  this  now  into  small  bits,  which, 
she  dropped  into  the  basket  beneath  the  table. 

She  wondered  where  his  room  was. 


398  THE    HONEY   BEE 

She  could  not  very  well  ask  at  the  desk.  But  she  walked 
out  there  now,  and  stood  looking  over  a  railway  guide  while 
she  thought  this  out.  Then,  finally,  she  took  out  one  of  her 
cards,  wrote  on  it  the  first  few  friendly  words  that  came 
into  her  head,  slipped  it  into  an  envelope,  wrote  his  name — 
"Harris  Doreyn,  Esq." — on  the  envelope  and  handed  it  to 
a  clerk.  "Please  send  that  to  Mr.  Doreyn,"  she  said. 

The  clerk  consulted  the  guest  book  at  his  elbow,  scribbled 
a  number  on  the  envelope,  and  rang  for  a  page. 

Hilda  tried  to  read  the  number,  upside  down;  but  just 
then  the  clerk's  hand  closed  over  it. 

She  stood  very  quietly  there;  but  it  seemed  to  her  that 
her  heart  was  beating  loudly. 

The  page  appeared.  "Six-fourteen !"  said  the  clerk 
bruskly,  and  turned  away. 

That  was  it,  then — room  six  hundred  and  fourteen. 
Sure  that  the  clerk  had  BOW  forgotten  her  existence,  she 
stepped  after  the  page,  dropped  a  shilling  into  his  hand 
and  took  the  envelope  from  him. 

It  occurred  to  her  a  moment  later  that  the  natural  thing 
would  have  been  to  let  the  message  go  through.  It  could 
:not  have  affected  her  plans.  Were  her  nerves  shattered, 
then?  Surely  not!  They  must  not  be.  Perhaps  a  few 
such  small  but  rather  conspicuous  blunders  would  teach 
her  calmness  and  poise  in  this  new  tangle  of  problems. 

It  took  some  time  to  find  six  hundred  and  fourteen.  She 
found  herself  ascending  stairways  and  roaming  through 
long  halls — for  she  would  not  ask.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
chambermaids  and  floormen  eyed  her.  She  passed  groups 
of  guests — Americans,  in  one  instance — and  walked  by 
them  briskly  as  if  she  knew  where  she  was  going. 

Finally  she  found  herself  in  the  six  hundreds.  She 
passed  six-forty-two,  forty,  thirty-eight,  and  on  down.  At 


THE    HOXEY   BEE  399- 

last  there  it  was — the  door  that  bore  the  numerals,  six, 
one,  four. 

For  the  moment  her  breath  left  her.  It  was  curious — it 
seemed  that  she  could  not  breathe  at  all.  And  there  was 
something  of  that  old  pressure  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and 
the  pounding  in  the  temples.  She  had  not  foreseen  that  it 
would  be  so  hard,  so  physically  hard.  .  .  .  And  there 
were  innumerable  shooting  little  fears  and  surmises  rising 
to  confuse  her.  "What  if  he  were  not  alone,  for  one  thing ! 
She  recalled  that  he  had  had  to  have  some  other  person 
address  his  note  to  her. 

Thinking  this  over,  she  could  not  see  that  it  made  any 
difference.  She  made  a  last  firm  effort  to  control  herself, 
stepped  forward,  and  tapped  lightly  on  the  door.  And 
with  that  light  tapping  came  a  change  in  her;  as  if,  from 
this  moment  and  because  of  this  act,  she  would  be  in  some 
sense  a  different  sort  of  woman  from  the  sort  she  had 
always  been.  .  .  .  Not  a  worse  woman  necessarily  (she 
was  not  certain  about  this!) — perhaps  a  deeper  and  better 
one — certainly  a  different  one.  The  one  important  thing, 
she  felt  now,  was  to  be  a  less  turbulent,  calmer  woman,  a 
woman  who  would  give,  not  take.  And  this,  she  began  to 
believe,  as  in  response  to  a  voice — his  voice — calling, 
"Come  in !"  she  turned  the  knob,  she  was  going  to  be. 

She  stepped  in,  closing  the  door  after  her. 

He  was  alone — lying  quietly  in  bed,  his  face  flushed  and 
beaded  with  perspiration,  his  eyes  half  closed.  He  looked 
at  her,  almost  stupidly. 

She  moved  to  the  bedside  and  sat  there.  Her  hand 
sought  his  forehead. 

"Don't  scold  me,  Harris,"  she  said  softly.  "I  had  to- 
come." 

Her  hand  was  in  his  now. 


400  THE    HONEY   BEE 

"Oh,  Hilda!  .  .  ."  That  was  all  he  seemed  able  to 
say  at  the  moment. 

She  gently  withdrew  her  hand  from  his,  and  stroked  his 
temple  and  cheek. 

^  "Hilda" — he  began  again ;  then,  "it's  the  morphine  they 
gave  me  during  the  night,  dear.  My  head  is  muddy.  Did 
my  note  make  sense  ?" 

"Of  course,  Harris.'*  She  looked  thoughtfully  at  him. 
"These  attacks  are  very  painful  then,  dear  ?" 

"Oh,  yes.  No  doubt  about  that.  This  last  one  was 
nearly  five  hours  long.  They  drug  me  to  ease  the  nervous 
shock  of  it." 

Hilda's  light  hand  was  still  on  his  forehead.  "Do  you 
know,  dear,"  she  said,  musingly,  "I've  never  suffered — " 

"Oh— child !" 

"Not  in  this  way.    I  have  so  very  much  to  learn,  Harris." 

"You  mustn't  stay  long,  Hilda.  I  have  called  in  a  man 
to  look  out  for  me.  He  will  be  coming  back  before  long. 
.  .  .  You  know,  girl,  you  shouldn't  have  come.  Eeally, 
you  shouldn't." 

She  was  smiling,  faintly. 

"You  will  go,  Hilda?" 

Slowly  she  shook  her  head.  "Please  don't  scold  me, 
Harris — but  I  can't  let  any  one  else  take  care  of  you." 

"Oh,  Hilda — no !    I  couldn't  forgive  myself !" 

She  was  grave  again.  He  was  looking  up  at  her,  rather 
'anxiously,  and  a  thought  confused. 

"I'll  be  glad  to  get  my  head  back,"  he  said.  "I  don't 
like  this  drugging." 

Still  she  was  thinking. 

Finally  she  let  her  eyes  rest  on  his — her  steady  eyes, 
rather  large  and  of  a  deep  gray-blue  color,  just  as  they  had 
been  in  all  his  memories  of  the  younger  Hilda. 


THE   HONEY   BEE  401 

"Harris,"  she  said,  "I  don't  like  to  antagonize  you.  And 
I  don't  want  to  excite  you.  That  would  be  hurting  you 
just  when,  more  than  anything  else,  I  want  to  help.  But 
really,  there  isn't  any  use  of  your  trying  to  send  me  away. 
Xot  now.  I  can't  go.  I  won't  go." 

"But,  Hilda—" 

"I  won't  go,  dear.  If  I'm  ever  to  be  of  any  use  to  you, 
after — after  all  that  has  happened — now  is  the  time." 

"But  you  haven't  thought,  girl !    You  don't  realize — " 

"Harris,  I  have  thought  of  everything."  There  was 
quiet  strength  in  the  gray-blue  eyes.  They  were  rather 
inescapable.  "The  time  for  me  to  be  with  you  is  when  you 
need  me.  And  you  will  never  need  me  more  than  now." 

"But,  Hilda—" 

"Harris,  dear,  we  can't  argue  this.  A  woman  has  to  do 
what  she  feels  she  ought  to  do.  This  is  the  way  I  feel.  It 
has  taken  me  a  long,  long  time  to  come  to  this  point.  But 
now — well,  here  I  am !  Probably  I  know  pretty  accurately 
what  is  in  your  mind  about  it.  ...  The  conventions? 
{They  have  hurt  me  quite  as  much  when  I  was  fighting 
desperately  to  observe  them  as  they  could  possibly  hurt  me 
now  when  I  am  beginning  to  feel,  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life,  like  my  true  self.  Besides,  we  aren't  defying  them  in 
the  spirit;  only  in  the  letter.  .  .  .  The — well,  the 
intimate  little  details  of  caring  for  you?  Harris,  I  will 
love  them.  Just  remember,  dear,  that  I  am  a  pretty  active 
woman.  I  have  to  be  doing  something.  And — well,  you 
need  me,  dear."  She  pursed  her  lips ;  her  eyes  were  filling. 
"Harris,"  she  concluded,  "please  don't  send  me  away !"  And 
leaning  forward,  she  touched  her  lips  to  his  forehead ;  then 
sat  up  again  and  took  his  right  hand  in  both  of  hers. 

She  was  studying  his  face  with  a  new  touch  of  humility 
in  her  own.  He  felt  this. 


402  THE   HONEY   BEE 

"No" — she  was  slowly  shaking  her  head — "no,  Harris, 
I  can't  go.  Not  while  you  need  me  so.  When  you  are  well 
again — yes,  I  will  go  then.  But  not  now,  dear — not  now !" 

She  gave  him  no  chance  to  reply  to  this ;  but  got  up  and 
looked  about  the  room.  It  was  in  some  disorder.  She 
straightened  out  the  clutter  on  the  bureau;  hung  his 
clothes  in  the  closet ;  put  away  his  shoes  on  the  closet  floor. 

He  followed  her  with  his  eyes,  while  she  folded  a  towel 
and  hung  it  over  the  back  of  the  washstand.  The  room 
already  had  a  new  atmosphere. 

She  came  to  the  bedside.  "Harris,  you  had  better  tell  me 
the  doctor's  name." 

He  complied.  The  confused  expression  he  had  worn  was 
leaving  his  face. 

"I  have  a  notion  that  you  will  sleep  now,"  she  said, 
quietly  studying  him — "if  you  are  left  alone.  Then,  later 
on,  if  you  feel  like  it,  I  will  find  something  to  read  to  you." 

H£  smiled  now.  "Yes,  child,"  he  said,  "you  go  now. 
And — "  he  caught  at  her  hand — "and  .  .  ." 

She  let  him  hold  her  hand  for  a  moment,  knowing  that 
deep  emotions  within  him  were  pressing  for  utterance. 

"Now,  Harris,"  she  said,  releasing  his  hand  and  smooth- 
ing the  covers,  "let  me  turn  your  pillow,  and  you  sleep  a 
bit." 

He  sighed  as  his  head  sank  back.  "And  you  will  go, 
"  Hilda?" 

"As  far  as  the  window,"  said  she.  "I'm  going  to  look 
around  among  your  books  for  something  to  read."  She 
turned  to  the  table.  "I  was  interested  in  what  you  said 
about  the  New  Testament,  Harris — in  your  letter — " 

"As  far  as  Paul,"  he  interrupted,  eager  even  in  his 
drowsiness. 

"Yes,  as  far  as  Paul.    You  called  it  essential  religion,  I 


THE   HONEY   BEE  403 

think — some  such  phrase,  anyway.  I  have  thought  once  or 
twice  since  then  that  a  little  religion,  some  sort  of  re- 
ligion— " 

A  sudden,  quite  unforeseen  uprush  of  emotion  caught 
her  throat.  She  broke  off  abruptly. 

He  lay  quiet.  Soon  she  heard  him  breathing  slowly  and 
rhythmically. 

When  she  looked  up  from  her  book,  later,  she  saw  that 
he  was  smiling  in  his  sleep. 


XXIX 

HOW  A  MAN  SMILES  AGAIN",  AND  NOT  IN  HIS  SLEEP  THIS 
TIME.  WITH  A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  HAPPINESS  THAT  LIES 
BEYOND  TEARS 

THE  doctor's  name  was  Henderson.  He  was  a  man  of 
middle  age,  like  Doreyn's  solicitor,  Mr.  Priest.  Un- 
like Mr.  Priest,  he  wore  a  hat  that  was  neither  high  nor 
of  silk;  and,  also  unlike  that  austere  man  of  the  law,  he 
leaned  toward  a  brusk,  rather  businesslike  professional 
manner.  And  whereas  Mr.  Priest,  in  his  attitude  toward 
Hilda,  never  for  an  instant  swerved  from  a  severely  cor- 
rect, painfully  impersonal  bearing  that  at  times  chilled  her 
heart,  Doctor  Henderson  was  inclined  to  regard  her  with  a 
frank,  even  resentful  curiosity — "brutal,"  was  the  adjective 
he  sometimes  stirred  to  the  surface  of  Hilda's  thoughts. 

Yet  she  got  on  rather  well  with  both.  They  were  not 
so  different,  either  of  them,  from  types  of  men  that  had 
played  various  parts  in  her  business  transactions  of  the  last 
ten  years.  She  accepted  the  fact  that  they  did  not  like  her, 
while  respecting  them  for  the  workmanlike  manner  in 
which  each  attended  to  his  business. 

Doreyn's  condition  did  not  improve  at  once.  And  after 
a  day  of  anxiety,  the  question  arose  of  moving  him.  Doc- 
tor Henderson  favored  a  hospital,  but  was  not  seriously 
opposed  to  Hilda's  carrying  out  her  hope  of  finding  private 
quarters  where  she  might  continue  her  care  of  him.  It 

404 


THE   HONEY   BEE  405 

was  plain  that  she  was  an  exceedingly  competent  woman; 
and  equally  plain  that  the  patient  rested  more  comfortably, 
at  least  in  mind,  when  she  was  near.  Accordingly,  armed 
with  the  physician's  consent,  Hilda  called  in  Mr.  Priest 
and  laid  before  him  the  question  of  finding  a  furnished 
apartment.  The  solicitor  moved  quickly ;  and  on  the  third 
day  of  his  illness,  Doreyn  was  taken  in  an  ambulance  from 
the  great  crowded  hotel  in  the  Strand  to  a  comfortable 
second  floor — or  first,  as  the  English  term  it — of  a  house 
in  Lancaster  Gate.  This  location  because  Hilda  had  ex- 
pressed a  desire  to  be  near  Kensington  Gardens. 

And  here  Hilda  watched  over  him,  assisted  by  a  day 
and  a  night  nurse,  each  of  whom  soon  learned  to  trust  and 
respect  the  rather  mysterious  Miss  "Wilson  who  was  so 
obviously  the  head  of  the  little  household.  Through  the 
late  weeks  of  spring,  and  on  through  June  into  midsum- 
mer, they  worked,  these  three  women,  to  restore  some  por- 
tion of  the  shattered  digestive  apparatus  of  their  invalid. 
Hilda  had  never  seen  such  suffering  as  now  became  sadly 
familiar  to  her.  Nor  had  she  ever  seen  such  courage.  If 
there  might,  before,  have  been  an  occasional  lurking  doubt 
in  her  mind  as  to  the  completeness  of  her  love  for  this 
man,  certainly  there  was  no  doubt  now.  She  cooked  with 
her  own  hands  much  of  the  very  small  amount  of  food 
that  he  was  able  to  eat.  She  relieved  the  nurses,  from  time 
to  time,  whenever  one  or  the  other  seemed  more  nearly 
exhausted  than  usual.  She  slept  when  she  could,  and  little 
by  little  gave  up  the  thought  of  any  consistent  outdoor 
exercise.  .  .  .  Once  before  in  this  momentous  year  sh« 
had  found  herself  tied  to  a  sick  room ;  but  that  had  been  a 
very  slight  strain  indeed  compared  with  this.  It  had  pre- 
pared her  for  this,  doubtless. 

Toward  the  end  of  July,  following  a  period  during  which 


406  THE    HOXEY   BEE 

Doreyn  had  appeared  to  be  approaching  convalescence,  had 
even  managed  to  sit  up  on  several  consecutive  days  and 
discuss  some  business  matters  with  Mr.  Priest,  he  was 
seized  with  another  series  of  attacks.  By  the  thirty-first 
of  July  Hilda  knew  that  he  was  a  very  sick  man — more 
dangerously  ill,  indeed,  than  during  those  anxious  weeks  of 
the  spring  and  early  summer.  Doctor  Henderson  was  in 
during  the  night  of  the  thirty-first  and  stayed  for  more 
than  an  hour.  By  mid-forenoon  of  August  first  two  con- 
sulting physicians  had  been  called  to  the  case;  and  during 
the  days  that  followed  Hilda  heard  them  speaking  crypti- 
cally of  a  possible  "damming  back,"  with  some  new  danger 
of  a  "septic  condition." 

During  this  period — from  late  July  to  early  August, 
Hilda  worked  tirelessly.  For  days  she  refused  so  much  as 
to  leave  the  apartment. 

These  were  the  days  when  stock  exchanges  in  all  great 
cities  were  closing  with  a  snap;  when  great  liners  were 
dodging,  in  painted  disguises  and  with  all  lights  out,  into 
unfamiliar  harbors;  when  German  ships,  laden  to  the  rails 
with  coal,  were  slipping  out  of  American  ports  by  night  to 
supply  those  roving  commerce  destroyers  that  had  been  cut 
off  from  their  base  by  the  swift  and  complete  isolation  of 
Germany;  when  Austria,  Germany,  France,  England  and 
little  Belgium  were  rushing  troops  to  the  various  fronts, 
commandeering  horses,  automobiles,  farm  wagons,  rail- 
ways and  every  man  of  a  fighting  age ;  when  sudden  decla- 
rations of  war  were  tearing  Europe  asunder. 

All  this  meant  little  to  Hilda.  It  passed  her  by  like  a 
series  of  strange  dreams;  for  she  was  fighting  to  save  the 
life  of  the  man  she  loved.  She  was  pale,  tense,  but  calm 
— always  calm.  She  was  now  admittedly  the  ablest  nurse 
of  the  three.  She  had  mastered  every  technical  detail  of 


THE   HOXEY   BEE  407 

the  treatment.     A  whisper  from  Dore}Ti  would  find  her, 
day  or  night,  at  his  side. 

The  most  that  the  morphine  could  do  for  him,  it  ap- 
peared, was  to  relieve  his  conscious  mind  from  its  normal 
activities  and  perceptions.  He  had  become  a  man  who 
suffered  with  only  intermittent  consciousness  of  the  fact 
that  he  was  suffering.  At  times  he  knew  Hilda,  even  spoke 
to  her  with  a  tenderness  that  touched  deep  chords  within 
her.  At  other  times  the  drug,  or  the  pain,  or  both,  ap- 
peared to  craze  him,  and  he  would  struggle  with  surprising 
strength  to  escape  from  his  bed,  and  even  from  the  room. 
More  than  once  Hilda  found  herself  actually  helping  to 
wrestle  with  him  and  force  him  back  to  the  bed.  And  the 
need  of  such  activity  had  sprung  up  so  swiftly  that  she 
went  through  these  painful  experiences  with  little  thought 
of  their  strangeness;  they  were  simply  situations  that  had 
to  be  met  as  they  came.  The  thinking  about  them  would 
come  later. 

One  day  she  looked  at  her  face  in  the  mirror.  It  was  a 
white  tired  face.  The  grayish  half  moons  under  her  eyes 
explained  the  smarting  and  the  sensation  of  strain  she  felt 
in  them  day  and  night.  She  recalled  that  Miss  Nichols,  the 
night  nurse,  had  been  urging  her  of  late  to  get  out  into  the 
open  air.  Even  Doctor  Henderson,  whose  bruskness  of 
manner  was  lately  veering  toward  a  reluctant  respect — 
this  man  had  even  taken  her  arm,  only  this  morning,  and 
said,  "Don't  draw  too  heavily  on  your  reserve  strength, 
Miss  Wilson.  Not  right  now.  Better  get  out  and  run 
around  a  bit.  You  will  be  more  useful  with  seme  outdoor 
air  and  some  sleep." 

He  was  right,  of  course.  The  struggle  might  continue 
for  weeks,  even  months.  And  since  no  human  being  could 
go  on  indefinitely  at  her  present  gait,  she  decided  to  con- 


408  THE   HONEY   BEE 

serve  her  strength.  Accordingly  she  took  to  walking  out 
for  at  least  an  hour  each  day. 

There  had  been  a  period,  during  parts  of  June  and  early 
July,  when  Doreyn  had  enjoyed  having  her  read  aloud — 
!  mostly  economic  studies  and  modern  European  history, 
with  a  few  of  the  very  recent  English  novels.  Also  there 
had  been  two  or  three  excursions  into  the  rather  perplexing 
subjects  of  feminism  and  socialism.  It  had  interested  her 
to  follow  the  surprisingly  wide  range  and  the  definiteness 
of  his  information.  She  began  to  see  the  part  that  a  rich 
mental  background  had  played  in  his  growth  as  a  business 
executive.  She  had  not  before  thought  much  about  wide 
reading  as  a  practical  asset  in  the  day's  work.  She  began  to 
see  this  now,  and  to  become  conscious  of  the  real  gulf  be- 
tween him  and  herself.  The  thought  sobered  her.  And  at 
the  same  time  she  realized  that  in  following  the  Teachings 
out  of  his  mellow  rich  mind  she  was  beginning  a  new  sort 
of  education  for  herself. 

Toward  the  latter  part  of  August  the  international  mail 
service,  temporarily  crippled  by  the  fresh  adjustments  of 
war  time,  began  to  operate  on  a  more  nearly  normal  basis — 
at  least  between  England,  France  and  America. 

One  day  letters  came  from  Adele  and  from  Ed  Johnson, 
the  latter  forwarded  from  Paris.  She  had  had  a  little 
correspondence  with  Adele  and  Blink  during  the  summer. 
They  had  been  married  in  June,  after  some  small  difficulty 
with  the  intricate  French  legal  requirements  in  the  mat- 
ter of  marriage  between  foreigners. 

Adele's  letter  was  short.  She  and  Blink  had  decided  to 
leave  Paris  before  the  Germans  should  get  any  nearer. 
They  were  coming  to  London,  and  would  look  her  up,  in 
case  she  was  still  there. 


THE   HONEY   BEE  409 

"I  saw  Juliette  and  the  baby  yesterday,"  Adele  con- 
cluded, "and  they're  well  enough  so  far  but  I  don't  know 
what  Juliette's  going  to  do  because  there  isn't  any  work 
here.  I  never  saw  Paris  so  dead — it  gives  you  the  creeps 
and  it's  awfully  sad  everywhere,  with  the  men  all  gone  and 
most  everything  closed  up  and  the  girls  and  women  crying 
so  it  breaks  your  heart.  We  have  done  all  we  could  for  / 
Juliette,  Blink  has  got  some  gold  and  we're  going  to  leave 
some  of  it  with  her,  but  of  course  in  a  time  like  this  you 
can't  do  more  than  you  can,  Blink  says,  and  I  guess  he's 
right. 

"Anyway  I  guess  there's  lots  of  folks,  thousands  of  them 
that  are  going  to  be  starved  or  hurt  and  die  this  fall  with- 
out there  being  anybody  to  care  or  know  anything  about  it 
one  way  or  the  other. 

"It's  a  terrible  time. 

''Well,  this  is  all  now,  from  yours  very  truly, 

"ADELE  MORAN." 

Ed's  letter  was  a  pleasant  and  characteristic  bit  of  him- 
self. "He  is  a  good  friend,  Ed  is!"  she  thought,  with  a 
warm  glow  in  her  heart.  Then  the  picture  rose  of  Ed's 
one  great  moment  when  he  ejected  Will  Harper  from 
Adele's  room.  Hilda  even  smiled  faintly,  at  the  memory; 
and  she  thought  again,  "Ed  is  a  good  friend." 

His  letter  was  all  chat  and  gossip  of  the  store. 

"You  ought  to  be  here,  Hilda,"  he  wrote,  in  part.i 
"There's  new  work  for  all  of  us.  We're  digging  up  stock 
from  concerns  you  never  heard  of.  There's  nothing  com- 
ing from  Europe  at  all.  Joe  Hemstead  himself  looked 
after  your  work  in  Paris  this  summer.  Funny,  he  missed 
you  all  round.  He  just  got  back  Saturday.  The  war 
caught  him.  He  tried  to  get  through  to  Havre  with  a  lot 
of  model  gowns  in  an  automobile,  but  they  took  the  car 
away  from  him  near  Rouen,  said  the  chauffeur  was  a  Ger- 


410  THE   HONEY   BEE 

mau  spy,  and  shot  him,  for  all  anybody  knows.  They  shut 
J.  H.  up  himself  for  two  days  in  a  barn,  and  he  might  be 
there  yet  if  he  hadn't  given  a  boy  a  hundred  francs  to  take 
a  note  to  our  ambassador  and  promised  him  a  hundred 
more  if  he  brought  back  the  answer.  Then  he  walked 
twenty-five  miles  in  a  day,  caught  a  train  to  Havre,  got 
across  the  channel  in  a  fishing  boat,  and  just  caught  a  ship 
home,  traveling  steerage." 

Hilda  mused  over  this.  "J.  H.  was  here  in  England, 
then,  this  summer/'  she  thought.  "If  I  had  known  it  I 
would  have  tried  to  see  him."  The  old  world  of  her  work- 
ing habits  was  suddenly  close  to  her.  She  fell  to  wonder- 
ing how  they  were  solving  the  extraordinary  problems  that 
her  own  department  must  certainly  be  facing  at  this  mo- 
ment. 

Then  she  shook  off  the  mood,  and  read  on : 

"We're  doing  pretty  fair  business  at  that.  I'm  running 
about  three  per  cent,  above  last  year.  The  store  as  a  whole 
is  doing  better  than  that.  And  I  expect  to  pick  up  all  right 
in  the  fall  when  the  glove  trade  begins  to  move  in  the  cooler 
weather.  But  between  you  and  I,  we're  pretty  near  the 
only  store  in  New  York  that's  doing  any  business  at  all. 

"You  remember  that  other  thing  I  spoke  about  in  Paris 
— that  mean  story.  Well,  I  run  it  down,  I  think.  May 
Isbell  started  it,  just  kind  o'  half  saying  things.  And  then 
Stanley  Aitcheson  did  the  rest  of  it,  as  I  thought.  I  don't 
know  what  he's  got  against  you,  but  he  was  sure  peeved. 
He's  going  to  be  married  in  October  to  a  Philadelphia  girl. 
I  told  Stanley  I  was  going  to  write  you  this.  Told  May 
too." 

i  Hilda  read  this  paragraph  a  second  time;  and  her  eyes 
filled.  There  was  not  a  hint  in  the  letter — and  she  read 
on  to  the  end  to  make  sure — regarding  the  things  she  and 


THE   HOXEY   BEE  411 

Ed  had  said  at  the  last,  apparently  not  so  much  as  a  mem- 
ory of  the  queer  hard  mood  she  had  been  in.  Ed  had 
always  seemed  a  rather  funny  little  man.  But  she 
knew  now  that  she  would  never  smile  at  him  again.  She 
recalled  wondering  often,  .in  the  old  days  before  her  life 
had  changed  so,  what  could  be  the  quality  in  Ed  that 
made  the  men  stand  by  him  so  warmly.  She  remembered, 
as  she  had  before,  that  on  those  occasions,  once  or  twice  a 
year,  when  Ed  seemed  to  find  it  necessary  to  drop  all  re- 
straints and  go  off  on  what  could  only  be  termed  a  drunk, 
the  other  men  always  hunted  him  up  and  looked  after  him, 
and  later  suppressed  all  talk  of  the  incident.  She  under- 
stood now  why  they  did  this. 

In  her  daily  walks  from  this  time  on,  she  gradually  be- 
came aware  of  the  immense  catastrophe  that  was  so  rap- 
idly engulfing  all  Europe,  if  not,  in  a  sense,  all  the  world. 
Soldiers  were  drilling  now,  everywhere.  Thej  were  even 
camped  in  Hyde  Park.  The  great  old  city,  cumbersome  as 
always,  slow  to  rouse  at  the  call  of  danger,  began  at  last 
to  show  signs  of  some  real  military  preparation.  Amateur 
police  appeared,  to  take  the  place  of  those  strong  young 
men  that  were  needed  at  the  front.  Eecruits  drilled  in 
business  suits,  and  in  sweaters  and  caps.  Khaki-clad 
troops  marched  to  the  railway  stations  and  disappeared, 
marched  and  disappeared.  Boy  scouts  appeared  everywhere 
fas  guards  and  messengers.  There  were  guns,  pointing  up- 
ward, on  the  roofs  of  the  government  buildings.  Much 
was  said  about  a  possible  raid  from  the  German  Zeppelins. 

Blink  and  Adele  came,  early  in  September.  Hilda  saw 
them  on  several  occasions,  but  never  for  more  than  a  few 
minutes  at  a  time.  She  made  no  effort  to  conceal  her 
trouble  from  them.  If  she  did  not  talk  freely,  it  was  only 
because  she  could  hardly  trust  herself  to  talk  at  all.  And 


413  THE   HONEY   BEE 

then,  they  asked  no  questions.  But  they  caught  enough  to 
understand;  and  she  felt  their  sympathy.  Blink,  in  his 
quiet  way,  offered  to  help,  and  appeared  gratified  when  she 
used  him  now  and  then  for  errands. 

The  only  other  personal  problem  involved  in  her  new 
program  of  daily  exercise  was  the  matter  of  rest.  She  knew 
now  that  she  must  manage  to  have  some  sleep.  She  solved 
the  problem  by  forcing  herself  to  lie  down  whenever  there 
happened  to  be  a  good  opportunity,  day  or  night.  And  she 
made  it  a  rule  not  to  get  up  for  an  hour,  unless  she  was 
called;  and  this  whether  her  eyes  closed  or  not.  At  the 
first  trials,  not  unnaturally,  they  did  not  close;  and  she 
lived  through  torments  of  struggle  against  the  current  of 
racing,  all  but  uncontrollable  thoughts.  But  little  by  lit- 
tle she  won  this  battle.  Within  four  or  five  days  she  had 
reached  a  point  at  which  she  could  usually  drop  asleep  at 
the  first  opportunity,  just  as  she  had  learned  to  do  during 
those  now  curiously  remote  days  of  the  baby's  illness,  back 
at  the  queer  little  Hotel  de  1'Amerique. 

With  the  increase  of  strength  and  reassertion  of  her 
normal  poise  that  came  with  this  little  victory,  Hilda  soon 
found  herself  accepted  more  completely  than  ever  as  the 
recognized  head  of  the  household.  Doctor  Henderson, 
quite  unconsciously,  it  seemed,  fell  to  discussing  the  med- 
ical details  of  the  case  with  greater  and  greater  frankness. 
And  Hilda's  mind  seized  on  every  detail.  Soon  he  was 
quite  as  likely  to  give  his  instructions  to  her  as  to  Miss 
Nichols  .  .  .  And  Hilda,  seeing  that  the  strain  was  be- 
ginning to  tell  seriously  on  both  the  nurses,  relieved  them 
in  every  way  that  she  could.  One  night,  on  waking  and 
stepping  softly  into  the  sick  room,  she  was  struck  by  the 
pallor  and  weariness  on  Miss  Nichols'  face.  She  slipped 
out  to  the  kitchen,  beat  up  an  egg-nog,  and  brought  it  in 


THE   HONEY  BEE  413 

to  her.  The  nurse  was  confused  by  this  considerate  act; 
but  though  she  found  difficulty  in  conveying  either  her 
thanks  or  her  protestations,  Hilda  did  not  miss  the  grati- 
tude in  her  eyes,  and  her  aching  heart  warmed  to  the  girl. 

Even  the  two  consulting  physicians,  who  at  first  had 
looked  askance  at  her,  gradually  came  to  accept  her.  And 
as  the  time  approached  when  their  graver  manner,  their 
more  frequent  low-voiced  discussions  in  the  front  room 
and  their  increasing  willingness  to  try  possible  remedies  of 
the  more  unusual  and  desperate  sort,  made  it  evident  that 
none  too  much  hope  was  left,  they  talked  to  her  quite 
frankly. 

One  day,  in  mid  September,  when  their  invalid  was  weak 
to  the  point  of  collapse,  Hilda  called  them  all  to  the  apart- 
ment. 

"Is  there  any  other  possible  effort  that  we  could  make  ?" 
she  asked,  very  quietly. 

The  three  physicians  considered  the  matter. 

"Is  there  a  serum  ?"  she  continued. 

"Nothing  that  is  not  still  in  an  experimental  stage,"  re- 
plied Doctor  Henderson. 

"But,  Doctor,  hasn't  the  time  come  when  we  are  justi- 
fied in  trying  experiments?  As  it  stands  now,  with  all 
that  has  been  done,  we  are  certainly  losing  ground." 

The  older  consultant  bowed  gravely  at  this.  "Yes,  Miss 
Wilson,"  he  said,  "we  are  losing  ground." 

"Then,"  said  she,  "it  seems  to  me  that  we  must  venture 
every  possible  experiment,  choosing  first  the  one  that  you 
may  think  the  least  dangerous." 

After  only  a  little  more  discussion  she  left  them.  But 
half  an  hour  later  Doctor  Henderson  told  her  that  they  had 
agreed  to  administer  a  serum  in  the  morning. 

The  first  effect  of  the  experiment  was  gratifying.  Doreyn 


414  THE   HONEY   BEE 

rested  more  easily.  The  serum  appeared  to  bring  a  little 
strength  to  him  and  to  increase  his  flagging  powers  of  re- 
sistance. For  several  days  the  strain  perceptibly  relaxed 
about  the  bedside. 

A  great  deal  else  was  taking  place  during  these  days  that 
engaged  her  attention. 

One  matter  was  a  curious  conversation  with  Blink  and 
Adele.  They  met  her  one  day  at  the  corner  of  Bayswater 
Road.  They  were  on  their  way  to  see  her. 

As  Hilda  was  just  starting  out  for  her  hour  afoot,  and 
had  no  particular  destination  in  mind,  she  walked  with 
them  through  Kensington  Gardens  to  the  restaurant  and 
sat  while  they  had  tea.  She  could  take  nothing  herself.  She 
was  forcing  herself  to  eat  at  meal  times  by  a  mechanical 
exercise  of  will;  but  found  the  process  too  distasteful  to 
be  carried  on  at  other  hours. 

She  found  herself  looking  at  these  two  who  had  played 
so  vital  a  part  in  her  recent  life  with  a  not  unkindly  de- 
tachment. Blink  was  quite  the  same — steady,  friendly,  a 
little  slow  in  thought.  He  was  graver  than  usual  now. 
And  Adele  was  very  sober,  not  far  from1  tears,  indeed.  Her 
mouth  drooped  at  the  corners. 

"We've  been  talking  over  this  war  thing,  Hilda,"  said 
Blink.  "And  we  can't  seem  to  figure  out  what  we  ought 
to  do." 

"And  so,"  put  in  Adele,  with  a  nervous  eagerness,  "we 
made  up  our  minds  to  talk  with  you  about  it." 

"And  get  your  advice,"  completed  Blink. 

"It's  this" — from  Adele — "we've  been  wondering  whether 
Blink  ought  to  go  to  war." 

"You  see" — from  Blink — "they  have  made  up  a  corps 
of  foreign  volunteers  at  Paris." 

Hilda  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  swiftly  reflected 


THE   HONEY   BEE  415 

on  life  and  its  changes.  Water  had  flowed  under  the 
bridge  here,  too!  These  two  were  man  and  wife  now, 
were  one,  indeed,  and  turned  to  her  for  help  with  a  fine 
simplicity. 

"Why  on  earth  should  Blink  go?"  she  asked. 

Adele  rushed  to  explain,  eagerly  disavowing  her  own  in- 
terest in  the  matter.  "You  see,  Hilda,  Blink  has  lived  a 
good  many  years  in  France — and  I've  been  there  quite  a 
while.  We've  both  earned  our  living  there.  Blink  has 
made  all  he's  got  out  of  the  French,  or  pretty  near  all. 
Sometimes,  when  we  try  to  think  about  it,  it  seems  as  if 
it  would  be  only  fair  to  help.  They're  having  such  dread- 
ful trouble,  the  French  people.  You  just  don't  know, 
Hilda,  unless  you've  seen  it.  Sometimes,  like  you  said,  we 
can't  see  why  on  earth  Blink  should  do  it.  And  other 
times  we  feel  that  he  just  ought  to.  You  know.  We  get 
mixed  up.  And  so  to-day  we  made  up  our  minds  to  ask 
you,  and  do  whatever  you  said." 

Hilda  was  slowly  shaking  her  head.  At  the  sight,  the 
corners  of  Adele's  mouth  began,  hesitatingly,  to  lose  their 
droop.  And  a  faint  light  crept  into  her  eyes. 

"If  you  leave  it  to  me,  then,"  said  Hilda,  "Blink  will 
do  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"Oh,  do  you  really  feel  that  way !"  murmured  Adele. 

Blink  was  silent. 

"Most  decidedly,  child.  There  are  only  two  reasons  for 
going  into  this  terrible  war — patriotism  or  adventure.  Ad- 
venture isn't  excuse  enough.  And  it  isn't  a  question  of 
patriotism  in  this  case." 

"I  wouldn't  try  to  hold  him  back,"  began  Adele.    .    .    . 

Hilda  reached  around  the  corner  of  the  table,  and  took 
her  hand.  "Of  course  you  wouldn't,  child,"  she  said 
gently.  "But  Blink  is  a  Dutch- American.  You  two  just 


416  THE   HONEY   BEE 

wait  until  the  Dutch-Americans  begin  fighting.  And 
don't  put  the  Dutch  part  first,  either !" 

During  the  silence  that  followed,  Hilda  found  her 
thoughts  running  back  to  other  days. 

"Did  you  leave  some  money  with  Juliette?"  she  asked, 
abruptly. 

"All  we  could,"  said  Blink — "a  hundred  francs.  I 
didn't  dare  leave  more,  it  was  so  hard  to  get  gold.  And 
we  don't  know  yet  how  much  of  our  savings  we're  going  to 
lose." 

"I  wish  I  could  send  some,"  mused  Hilda.  "But  I 
can't  get  it  on  my  letter  of  credit,  even  yet."  It  occurred 
to  her,  too,  that  Doreyn's  stock  of  gold  was  very  low.  .  .  . 
"What  do  you  suppose  the  child  will  do  ?" 

They  shook  their  heads.  All  three  found  only  blankness 
at  the  farther  end  of  this  thought — a  minute  personal  share 
of  the  blankness  that  already  confronted  the  people  of  all 
Belgium,  Austria,  and  parts  of  France,  Russia  and  Ger- 
many. 

The  conversation  flagged  after  this.  Each  was  thinking 
of  dainty  little  Juliette  and  her  baby. 

"It's  got  awfully  strong,"  said  Adele.  "It  sits  right  up 
— you  know,  holds  its  head  up — and  laughs  when  you 
make  faces."  Then  she  fell  silent. 

When  they  parted,  in  Lancaster  Gate,  Blink  gripped 
Hilda's  hand. 

"I  guess  you're  right,  Hilda,"  he  said.  "It  isn't  up  to 
me." 

"No,  Blink,  it  isn't  up  to  you.    You  stick  to  Adele." 

"Oh,"  cried  that  young  woman,  "I'd  let  him  go!  I'd 
send  him !"  And  the  corners  of  her  mouth  quivered  down- 
ward. 

"He  isn't  going,  though!"  said  Hilda,  bruskly. 


THE   HONEY   BEE 

"!N"o,  Adele,"  said  Blink  himself  then,  "I'm  not  going." 

Hilda  mounted  the  steps;  then  turned  and  looked  after 
them.  They  were  walking  arm  in  arm — Blink  with  all  the 
smooth  tiger-like  grace  of  his  big  perfect  body;  Adele,  a 
slim  girlish  figure,  very  graceful,  too,  and  very  small  be- 
side him. 

Adele  turned,  and  waved  impulsively.  Hilda  waved  back. 

She  let  herself  in  then,  and  sighed  as  she  mounted  the 
stairs.  What  a  queer  complex  thing  was  this  that  men  and 
women  call  happiness ! 

She  went  to  the  locked  drawer  in  her  bureau  shortly 
after  this,  and  emptied  out  two  bags  of  gold  into  her  lap. 
There  was  not  much  of  it  left.  Surprisingly  little,  in  fact ! 
She  decided  to  make  an  opportunity  to  speak  to  Mr.  Priest 
about  this.  The  only  hesitancy  she  felt  was  in  regard  to 
speaking  at  all  to  him.  She  had  not  won  him  over  as  she 
had,  gradually  and  with  only  a  slow  realization  of  the  fact, 
won  over  the  physicians  and  nurses.  Perhaps  because  there 
had  been  fewer  opportunities  to  see  him.  Though  she 
doubted  this  reason  as  her  mind  formulated  it.  The  solici- 
tor had  never  had  for  her  anything  but  a  cold,  studiously 
professional  respect.  .  .  .  Then  she  decided,  with  a  little 
wave  of  her  hands,  that  it  did  not  matter.  Her  concern 
was  to  keep  up  the  fight  for  Doreyn's  life.  She  would  call 
Mr.  Priest  up  in  the  morning,  the  first  thing,  on  the  tele- 
phone. 

But  Mr.  Priest  was  not  at  his  office.  A  little  later  he 
appeared  at  the  apartment. 

"I  have  been  trying  to  reach  you,  Mr.  Priest,"  said 
Hilda.  "I  wanted  to  ask  you  if  Mr.  Doreyn  made  any 
plans  for  getting  money.  There  is  only  a  little  of  his  left. 
My  own  is  all  gone.  And  lately  I  have  not  succeeded  in 
getting  any  large  amounts  on  my  letter  of  credit." 


418  THE   HONEY  BEE 

"I  called  to  speak  to  you  on  that  point,  Miss  Wilson," 
replied  the  solicitor.  He  was  quite  formal.  His  top  hat, 
resting  as  usual  on  the  table,  was  as  polished  and  hard  as 
himself.  "Mr.  Doreyn  left  explicit  instructions  with  me. 
My  understanding  has  been  that  I  was  not  to  convey  them 
to  you  except  in  the  event  of  his  death." 

Hilda  looked  at  him,  very  calm,  and  paler.  She  said 
nothing  to  this. 

"Of  course,"  Mr.  Priest  went  on,  "we  have  no  such  con- 
tingency to  face.  The  letter  which  I  have  for  you  need  not 
be  delivered,  as  the  matter  stands  now.  But  you  will  need 
money,  of  course;  and  since  Mr.  Doreyn  can  not  be  con- 
sulted at  this  time,  I  will  advance  whatever  sums  may  be 
needed,  taking  your  receipt.  I  am  the  only  one  who  runs 
any  risk  in  the  matter,  and  I  will  gladly  undertake  it. 
The  situation  is  an  emergency.  It  must  be  met  as  an 
emergency." 

"Then  he  has  money  that  can  be  reached?"  said  Hilda. 

"Oh,  yes — a  fairly  large  amount,  in  gold,  deposited  in 
my  name  at  my  own  bank." 

Hilda  studied  him  more  closely.  This  seemed  to  her  an 
odd  arrangement. 

"I  have  been  considering  this  matter,  Miss  Wilson,  and 
have  decided  that  the  time  has  come,  in  this  emergency,  to 
tell  you  something  of  Mr.  Doreyn's  plans,  as  he  has  en- 
trusted them  to  me." 

"They  concern  me,  then?"  said  Hilda,  coldly. 

"They  do.  Before  he  left  Chicago  last  winter,  he  re- 
linquished the  greater  part  of  his  interests  in  the  Doreyn 
Company.  More  than  half  of  his  holdings  he  placed  in 
trust  to  be  sold  from  time  to  time  to  employees  at  a  nominal 
price,  the  proceeds  to  be  divided  between  his  two  daughters, 
or  their  children,  in  case  they  should  marry.  The  greater 


THE   HONEY   BEE  419 

part  of  the  remainder  he  made  over  directly  to  his  daugh- 
,ters.  He  had  other  interests  and  investments.  I  do  not 
know  in  just  what  ways  these  were  disposed  of,  beyond  the 
fact  that  he  settled  a  large  sum  on  his  wife.  Out  of  all 
his  fortune  he  reserved  only  a  relatively  small  part  for  him- 
self;  enough,  however,  to  insure  a  fairly  comfortable  in- 
come. Early  in  the  spring  he  had  a  considerable  credit 
transferred  from  Chicago  and  New  York  to  London — an 
amount,  altogether,  of  nearly  forty  thousand  pounds,  or 
two  hundred  thousand  dollars.  During  July,  before  the 
war  began,  he  succeeded,  by  a  very  adroit  use  of  his  strong 
influence,  in  converting  more  than  half  of  this  into  gold. 
He  has  been  a  very  far-sighted  man,  Miss  Wilson." 

"He  is  a  very  far-sighted  man,"  replied  Hilda.  "But 
you  said  that  this  concerned  me." 

'  "It  does,  decidedly.  This  total  of  about  forty  thousand 
pounds — part  of  which  is,  for  the  moment,  valueless — rep- 
resents, I  believe,  something  approaching  half  the  amount 
that  Mr.  Doreyn  had  reserved  for  his  personal  use.  This 
money — or  as  much  of  it  as  has  been  deposited  with  me 
in  gold,  will  belong  to  you." 

j  Hilda's  face  did  not  change.  The  words  on  her  tongue 
—"Of  course  I  can  not  accept  it !" — were  not  uttered.  She 
merely  waited. 

I  "He  has  already  given  it  outright  to  you,  the  only  quali- 
fication being  a  personal  understanding  with  me  that  the 
exchange  was  not  to  be  made  until  his  death.  He  chose 
this  method,  I  believe,  in  order  that  no  discussion  need 
arise  in  the  event — " 

"I  quite  understand,"  said  Hilda. 

"Very  well,  then,  Miss  Wilson.  You  will  see  that  in  the 
circumstances,  since  he  is  quite  helpless,  I  feel  that  I  am 
justified  in  following  any  reasonable  instructions  that  you 


420  THE   HONEY   BEE 

may  choose  to  give.  And  I  have  brought  a  small  bag  of 
gold  with  me,  thinking  that  you  might  have  immediate 
needs.  .  .  .  You  will  kindly  sign  this  receipt." 

He  had  produced  the  bag  from  an  inner  pocket,  and  the 
receipt  from  his  wallet. 

Hilda  reached  mechanically  for  the  receipt,  took  it  to 
the  table,  and  signed  it. 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Wilson,"  said  he.  He  stepped  to  the 
table,  took  up  his  hat,  and  thoughtfully  polished  it  with 
his  sleeve.  He  was  obviously  lingering.  Which  struck 
her  as  rather  odd. 

Then  he  looked  up ;  and  she  saw  in  his  dry  square  face 
the  first  indications  of  emotion  that  she  had  ever  seen 
there. 

"While  I  had  not  originally  intended  to  mention  it,  I 
think  I  had  better  tell  you,  Miss  Wilson,  that  in  his  letter 
to  you,  to  be  delivered  in — in — " 

Hilda  nodded  bruskly.    "Yes,  yes !"  she  said. 

" — he  anticipates  an  unwillingness  on  your  part  to  re- 
ceive this  money  for  yourself.  He  has  felt,  naturally 
enough,  after  making  full  provision  for  others  dependent 
on  him,  that  the  relatively  small  amount  remaining  was — 
well,  consecrated  to  a  life  with — well,  with  yourself.  There- 
fore he  could  do  no  less  with  this  money  than  make  it  over 
to  you.  And  he  suggests  in  case  you  personally  have  no 
need  of  it — " 

"I  don't  need  it,"  said  Hilda,  rather  mechanically,  still 
studying  him. 

"Quite  so !  Well,  that  you  would  then  perhaps  find  ways 
in  which  it  could  be  used  to  aid  others.  In  his  letter  I  be- 
lieve he  speaks  of  the  possibility  of  helping  destitute  per- 
sons from  the  war  zone  or — " 


THE   HONEY   BEE  421 

Hilda  was  finding  it  difficult  to  listen.  She  raised  a 
protesting  hand. 

He  was  still  talking  on — "Of  course  there  will  be  many, 
many  good  uses  to  which  money  may  be  put  in  these  sad 
times,  Miss  "Wilson.  .  .  ." 

"Please!"  she  murmured. 

Then  she  saw  that  there  were  actually  tears  in  the  man's 
eyes.  And  he  was  extending  his  hand.  Their  hands  had 
never  touched  before. 

She  took  his  hand  now.    Her  own  eyes  were  frankly  wet. 

"We  are  going  to  save  him,"  she  said,  "if — " 

"If  it  can  be  done,  you  will  do  it.  Good  day,  Miss  Wil- 
son!" Then  he  hurried  out. 

Hilda  went  to  her  own  room  and  dried  her  tears.  Then 
she  slipped  into  the  sick  room. 

The  younger  nurse  was  sitting  by  the  bed,  fanning 
Doreyn. 

His  head  was  propped  up  a  little  way,  on  two  pillows. 
He  was  very  white,  very  thin.  His  eyes,  now  sunken,  were 
closed.  The  skin  was  tight  over  his  gums.  One  fragile 
hand  lay  on  the  coverlet.  It  seemed  to  Hilda  almost  a 
transparent  hand. 

She  bent  over  him.  Yes,  he  was  breathing.  But  she 
knew  with  a  catch  at  her  heart  and  a  momentary  breathless- 
ness,  that  she  had  never  seen  such  utter  illness  as  this. 

She  looked  down  at  the  nurse,  smiled  gently,  and  took 
the  palm  leaf  fan  from  her  tired  fingers. 

"I  want  you  to  lie  down,"  she  said.  "I  will  do  this 
now." 

The  nurse  hesitated,  then,  with  a  grateful  look,  tiptoed 
out. 

And  Hilda,  sitting  quietly  there  and  slowly  wielding  the 


422  THE   HONEY   BEE 

fan,  looked  at  him  with  eyes  from  which  the  tears  welled 
unheeded. 

She  was  thinking  of  her  life  and  of  his,  of  the  conflict- 
ing currents  that  toss  helpless  humans  to  and  fro  and  con- 
fuse their  courses.  She  was  thinking  of  how  he  had 
loved — with  a  power  and  a  sweetness  that  were  far  beyond 
her  own  capacity  and  her  spiritual  endurance — how  he  had, 
in  every  possible  literal  sense,  given  his  life  to  her,  even, 
when  he  had  been  struggling  most  earnestly  and  patiently 
to  give  his  life  to  those  others  whose  claim  on  him  ante- 
dated her  own.  And  she  was  thinking  of  life  itself:  of 
pretty  little  Juliette  and  her  baby,  soon  perhaps  to  starve 
in  war-racked  Paris ;  of  her  own  mother,  looking,  not  quite 
resigned,  down  the  last  long  slope  of  life;  of  Margie, 
plunging  wilfully,  perhaps  even  rightly,  into  the  bewilder- 
ing complexities  of  marriage. 

And  then,  as  if  by  a  sudden  shaft  of  inner  light,  she 
saw  Annie  Haggerty,  back  there  at  the  store.  Poor,  sulk- 
ing, uncomprehending  Annie,  who  had  "gone  wrong." 
She  recalled  her  own  resentment  against  Annie,  and  hovr 
she  had  objected,  when  Martin  asked  her  to  let  Annie  stay 
on  in  her  department  and  "have  another  try."  There  were 
always  Annie  Haggertys  in  the  store.  And  she  had  always 
thought  the  men  too  easy  with  them.  .  .  .  She  wondered 
what  had  become  of  Annie.  And,  quite  suddenly,  pictures 
rose  in  her  mind  of  dark  city  streets  and  of  the  prowling 
figures  of  bold-eyed  girls  who,  every  one,  had  come  from 
somewhere,  who,  every  one,  had  felt  the  bitter  resentment 
against  their  bewildered  lost  souls,  of  women  who  called 
themselves  good.  .  .  .  She  could  see  Annie — now — her 
pretty  sulky  face.  And  the  bewilderment  in  her  eyes. 

And  now,  doubtless,  in  that  same  store,  men  and  women 
were  still  whispering,  as  men  and  women  will — very  hard, 


THE   HONEY   BEE  423 

very  superior — that  Hilda  "Wilson  had  "gone  to  pieces"  in 
Paris.  Annie  herself,  if  they  had  kept  her  on  so  long,  had 
surely  heard  it!  ... 

Late  that  night  Doctor  Henderson  came  in. 

Hilda  took  Miss  Nichols'  place  at  the  bedside  while  the 
nurse  stepped  into  the  hall  to  show  her  chart  and  receive 
instructions.  Once  again  she  wielded  the  fan.  Once  again 
she  gazed,  sadly  but  with  a  deepening  tenderness,  at  the 
fragile,  desperately  worn  face  of  the  man  who  had  loved 
her  for  so  long.  She  was  glad  that  there  was  not  so  much 
pain  in  his  expression.  It  almost  seemed  as  if  he  was 
smiling.  But  then  the  lights  were  dim,  and  the  shadows 
tricky.  She  could  hear  nurse  and  doctor  talking  low  in 
the  hall. 

He  was  smiling! 

Hilda,  aquiver,  leaned  forward,  shifted  the  fan  to  her 
left  hand,  and  took  his  wasted  fingers  within  her  own. 

His  eyes  opened,  slowly.  They  wandered  about  the  room 
until  they  found  her. 

"Hilda!"  he  said. 

She  had  never  seen  an  expression  of  such  utter  happiness 
on  a  human  face. 

"'Yes,  dear,"  she  murmured.    "It  is  Hilda." 

His  fingers  tightened  perceptibly  about  hers. 

"Isn't  this— beautiful ?"  he  said.  "Beautiful,  Hilda! 
You  are  right  here  with  me." 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  whispered. 

His  eyes  wandered  again ;  then  fixed  themselves  on  some 
point  on  the  wall  over  her  shoulder.  And  his  brows  closed 
down  a  little.  It  was  the  old  look !  He  was  trying,  oh,  so 
hard!  to  think. 

"There  have  been  dreams,"  he  said.  "Life  is  very 
puzzling,  Hilda.  I  don't  know  why  it  is  so.  Perhaps  it 


424  THE   HONEY   BEE 

couldn't  have  been.  I  mean  it  might  not  have  worked  out, 
after  all." 

"Yes,  dear — I  know." 

"Maybe  there  was  just  too  much  in  the  way — things,  I 
mean — and  lives.  It  might  not  have  worked  out  .  .  . 
all  we  have  done,  you  and  I,  and  all  we  have  been." 

Hilda  could  not  find  her  voice. 

"Perhaps,  dear" — he  was  amazingly  himself  now — "per- 
haps this  is  best,  after  all.  This  way,  we  meet,  at  least, 
dear.  We  have  found  each  other  ...  we  have  found 
each  other  .  .  ." 

"We  have  found  each  other  forever,  Harris."  She  was 
crying.  It  was  all  far,  far  beyond  her  control. 

"I  am  glad,"  he  murmured. 

Slowly,  as  they  had  opened,  his  eyes  closed.  But  he 
was  breathing — quite  as  before. 

Doctor  Henderson  was  leaving. 

Miss  Nichols  reappeared,  and  took  the  fan  from  Hilda's 
unresisting  fingers. 

Hilda  got  up  after  a  moment,  and  groped  her  way  to 
the  hall. 

The  doctor  was  outside  now,  moving  along  the  hall  to- 
ward the  stairs.  The  door  was  closing. 

She  opened  it,  and  hurried  after  him.    He  turned. 

"Oh,  Doctor,"  she  cried  softly,  through  her  tears — "he 
has  talked  to  me !  What  does  it  mean  ?  You  must  tell 
me  what  it  means!  Is  he  better?" 

The  physician  took  her  arm,  and  moved  her  gently  to- 
ward the  door. 

"I  am  coming  back  in  an  hour,"  he  said.  "We  shall  try 
the  serum  again  to-night.  We  will  do  everything  pos- 
sible .  ." 


THE   HONEY   BEE  425 

She  stopped  short;  leaned  flat  back  against  the  wall, 
with  arms  spread  stiffly  out  at  her  sides ;  stared  at  him. 
"You  mean — he  is  not  better !    .    .    ." 
The  physician  inclined  his  head.    "He  is  not  better,  Miss 
.,  Wilson." 


XXX 

BY  AN  OPEN  WINDOW  AT  FIGHT;  LIFE  IN  ITS  EBB  AND 
FLOW;  A  LOCK  OP  HAIE;  BLINK  MAKES  A  TRIP  TO 
FRANCE  ;  AND  HILDA,  A  LITTLE  LATER,  WRITES  HOME 

DOKEYN  did  not  speak  again.  For  three  days  he  lay 
in  so  profound  a  stupor  that  Hilda  more  than  sus- 
pected the  physicians  of  administering  their  drug  in  mer- 
cifully large  quantities.  Miss  Nichols  had  as  good  as 
admitted  that  hope  was  gone.  Even  if,  through  some  in- 
credible reserve  power  of  resistance  to  the  poison  that  had 
now  permeated  his  system,  bringing  new  and  vital  compli- 
cations of  its  own,  he  should  pass  this  crisis  and  come  to  a 
slight  rally,  he  would  be  confronted  with  a  series  of  opera- 
tions that  would  tax  the  strength  of  a  strong  young  man ! 
So  much  from  Miss  Nichols.  And  there  was  still  more 
that  remained  unphrased  for  Hilda's  ears,  though  it  could 
be  read  in  the  distinct  change  of  manner  on  the  part  of 
the  medical  men — a  relaxation  from  strain,  a  quiet  accept- 
ance of  the  inevitable. 

Hilda  drew  Miss  Nichols  into  the  front  room,  on  the 
evening  of  this  third  day  and  questioned  her  closely.  The 
nurse,  seeing  that  she  had  to  deal  with  a  woman  in  perfect 
poise,  answered  with  some  frankness.  And  thus  Hilda  her- 
self arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  the  more  merciful  course 
was  the  better.  She  could  not  bear  to  think  of  permitting 

426 


THE   HONEY  BEE  427 

further  suffering  to  that  wasted,  torture-racked  body-- 
futile suffering. 

This  was  the  twentieth  of  September.    They  all  sat  up 

during  the  night  that  followed.     During  the  twenty-first 

Hilda  did  not  leave  the  apartment.    That  night,  all  of  it, 

i  she  spent  at  his  bedside,  sending  first  one  nurse  and  then 

;athe  other  to  snatch  a  little  sleep. 

In  the  morning  of  the  twenty-second,  as  there  was  little 
perceptible  change,  they  fairly  forced  her  to  lie  down  on 
the  couch  in  the  front  room.  Here  her  healthy  body,  in 
sheer  rebellion,  sank  into  the  sleep  that  came  the  moment 
her  eyes  closed.  Doctor  Henderson  himself,  seeing  her 
there,  stole  in  and  drew  down  the  blinds. 

She  awoke  many  hours  later,  in  the  twilight.  Miss  Nich- 
ols was  moving  her  shoulder  with  a  strong  hand. 

"Come,  Miss  Wilson,"  she  was  saying.  "You  had  better 
come  now." 

And  Hilda,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  entered  a  death' 
chamber.  They  had  sent  her  away  during  her  father's  last 
illness.  She  was  then  a  child  of  five. 

In  her  inexperience  she  underestimated  the  extent  of  the 
shock  to  herself.  She  knew  that  doctor  and  nurses  were 
observing  her  closely.  They  suggested  that  she  lie  down. 
And  she  knew  that  the  physician  left  a  bromide  with  Miss 
Nichols.  She  even  felt  a  momentary  resentment.  There 
was  so  much  to  be  done,  and  she  was  glad  that  she  had  the 
strength  to  do  it. 

This  was  her  first  thought.  Her  second  thought  was  BO 
perplexing  that  she  shut  herself  in  her  room,  put  out  the 
light,  drew  a  chair  to  the  window,  and  forced  herself  to 
think  it  out. 

The  window  overlooked  an  area  way.  She  csuld  see  the 
windows  of  other  houses,  rear  windows,  most  of  them 


428  THE   HONEY  BEE 

lighted.  Men  and  women  were  moving  about  here  and 
there,  in  rooms  behind  the  windows.  She  even  heard 
voices,  and  a  ripple  of  laughter  from  a  girl's  lips.  Down 
in  the  area  a  man  servant  was  whispering  to  a  serving 
maid.  She  could  see  them  by  the  light  that  poured  out  of 
an  open  doorway.  He  had  his  arm  about  her  shoulders. 

The  tears  came  and  fell  on  Hilda's  cheeks.  In  her  lap, 
close  to  the  window-sill,  her  hands  clasped,  the  fingers  inter- 
locked very  tightly.  She  looked  down  at  the  softly  whis- 
pering couple.  She  glanced  from  window  to  window.  She 
raised  her  head  and  gazed  at  the  strip  of  night  sky  above 
the  chimney  pots. 

Before  the  night  was  out  men  would  be  coming,  whisper- 
ing obsequious  men,  to  make  the  last  earthly  arrangements. 
In  the  morning  others  would  come — others  would  have  to 
come.  There  was  a  family  in  Chicago  to  be  notified  by 
cable.  There  might  be  difficulties  of  a  curious  and  harmful 
kind — harmful  to  him,  to  the  name  he  had  borne  so  honor- 
ably and  so  long.  The  passing  of  Harris  Doreyn  could  not 
be  inconspicuous,  not  possibly.  Even  the  American  am- 
bassador would  have  to  know  and  at  once. 

More  and  more  clearly  she  saw  this.  No  matter  what 
their  relationship  had  been,  his  and  hers,  it  was  now  her 
secret.  The  memory,  the  spirit  of  it,  was  in  her  heart,  a 
part  of  her  very  self ;  but  it  must  stay  there,  her  own  secret, 
locked  away  from  the  world  that  is  so  heedless  and,  at  the 
last,  so  ruthless.  Their  relationship  lay  outside  the  primi- 
tive classifications  of  the  world.  It  did  not  occur  to  her, 
at  this  time,  to  question  the  justice  of  these  classifications. 
She  merely  felt,  and  felt  intensely,  that  here  was  a  fragile 
and  beautiful  secret,  all  her  own,  on  which  the  world  must 
never  lay  its  crude  destructive  hands.  And  she  felt  that 
she  would  never  again  be  hasty  in  applying  those  rough 


THE   HONEY  BEE  429 

worldly  classifications  to  others.  "Without  knowing  that  a 
very  wise  man  had  once  found  the  precise  phrase  in  which 
to  crystallize  her  new  perception  of  life,  she  was  beginning 
to  understand,  for  herself  and  out  of  her  own  deep  experi- 
ence, that  to  know  all  is  to  forgive  all. 
,  From  the  house  across  the  area  floated  again  a  girl's 
light  laugh.  And  Hilda  leaned  on  the  window-sill ;  pressed 
her  handkerchief  for  a  long  time  against  her  eyes;  then 
looked  up  above  the  chimney  pots  at  a.  little  cluster  of 
:  stars.  .  .  .  Life,  all  about  her,  was  going  on.  Doubt- 
less, her  life,  too,  would  go  on.  She  did  not  know  just 
how,  but  it  would  go  on.  Somehow,  she  would  work  out 
a  new  direction — possibly  even  drift  back,  on  some  terms 
or  other,  into  the  old.  Just  now  all  that  was  remote.  Now 
she  was  thinking  how  this  man  who  had  loved  her  so  had, 
for  better  or  worse,  made  her  life.  Never  fully  realizing  it 
she  had  modeled  her  business  self  on  his.  His  maxims, 
memories  of  his  early  character  and  industry,  had  guided 
her  at  every  turn.  Now  it  would  be  very  different.  She 
would  not  be  hard  now.  She  would  not  drive  in  the  old 
way.  She  fell  to  hoping  that  she  would  be  a  finer  better 
woman  for  his  love.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  might  now 
hope  so  much.  She  was  glad  that  she  had  his  letter.  That 
she  would  keep.  It  would  be  a  good  thing  for  her  to  read 
if,  at  some  future  time,  she  should  find  herself  in  danger 
of  losing  her  way  in  life.  It  would  live  in  her  spirit;  it 
would  be  a  sort,  a  fine  sort,  of  monument  to  his  mem- ' 
ory.  .  .  . 

After  a  time  she  went  to  her  room,  moved  by  a  quiet 
resolution,  and  set  to  work  packing  her  things. 
'     Mr.  Priest  would  be  in  early  in  the  morning,  she  was 
sure.    She  had  telegraphed  his  home  the  first  thing.    The 
address  was  in  Doreyn's  pocket  notebook.     Perhaps  he 


430  THE   HONEY  BEE 

would  come  before  morning.  She  hoped  he  would.  It 
would  be  better. 

He  did  come,  shortly  after  midnight,  knocking  softly  at 
the  door. 

Hilda  herself,  still  fully  dressed,  let  him  in. 
1  They  sat  in  the  front  room  and  talked  things  out.  When 
she  told  him  that  she  was  leaving  in  the  morning  he  offered 
no  objection.  She  saw  that  he  instantly  recognized  the 
wisdom  of  her  course.  She  went  a  step  further,  and  pointed 
out  to  him,  very  simply,  the  importance  of  protecting  Do- 
reyn's  worldly  name.  And  he  inclined  his  head  in  assent. 

"There  might  be  difficulties,"  he  observed,  a  little  later. 
."The  confusion  of  the  war,  and  of  the  crowds  of  refugees, 
will  operate  in  our  favor." 

(  "Yes,"  said  she.  "I  had  thought  of  that.  Every  one  is 
too  preoccupied  to  think  about  anything  else,  even  about — 
him." 

"You  will  have  to  give  me  your  address  here,"  said  the 
solicitor.  "There  will  be  those  other  matters  to  settle — 
the  money — " 

She  sat  very  still,  considering  this. 

"Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  feel  sorry  about  that,"  said  she, 
musing. 

"You  will  understand  my  position,"  he  explained.  "It 
can  hardly  go  back  to  his  estate  now.  I  can  not  keep  it,  or 
use  it.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "of  course.  I  will  think  it  over.  We 
should  find  some  good  use  to  make  of  it." 

When  he  rose  to  go  she  walked  out  with  him  into  the 
hall.  At  the  door  she  paused. 

"Would  you" — she  hesitated — "would  you  like  to  see 
him?" 

"Very  much,  Miss  Wilson," 


THE    HOXEY   BEE  431 

She  led  him  into  the  silent  room,  and  herself,  with  gentle 
but  firm  hands,  turned  back  the  sheet  that  covered  the 
white  still  features.  The  face  was  like  marble,  immobile, 
calm.  There  was  no  evidence  now  of  the  suffering. 

The  solicitor  stood  for  a  long  time  at  the  opposite  side 
of  the  bed.  Finally  she  replaced  the  sheet. 

She  looked  up  at  him.  She  had  never  thought  of  Mr. 
Priest  as  an  old  man;  but  now  he  did  seem  rather  old. 
There  was  more  gray  in  his  hair  than  she  had  ever  ob- 
served before.  He  had  compressed  his  thin  lips,  and  the 
action  appeared  to  deepen  the  lines  in  the  lower  half  of  his 
face.  She  realized,  as  she  studied  him,  that  memories  were 
stirring  in  his  mind,  and  deep  thoughts. 

As  she  put  out  the  light,  and  they  turned  reverently  to- 
ward the  door,  Mr.  Priest  said: 

"He  was  twelve  years  my  client.  It  seems  mere  than 
that — he  left  so  deep  an  impression  on  all  who  were  associ- 
ated with  him/' 

Hilda's  thoughts  darted  back.  Suddenly  she  remem- 
bered that  first  trip  of  his  to  England,  and  the  tangle  of 
business  anxieties  that  had  hung  about  it.  She  even  visu- 
alized herself,  the  girl  of  barely  twenty,  in  his  office.  How 
her  young  romantic  spirit  had  idealized  him  then!  How 
deeply  she  had  felt  him  in  her  life ! 

Mr.  Priest  closed  the  door  behind  him,  very  softly,  and 
tiptoed  off  down  the  hall. 

Hilda  stood  motionless  in  the  hall  by  the  door. 

That  tiptoeing  sound  died  away  on  the  stairs.  The 
apartment  was  utterly  still.  Miss  Nichols  had  planned  to 
sit  up,  despite  Hilda's  protest ;  but  she  must  have  dropped 
off  to  sleep  in  her  chair. 

Hilda  was  still  thinking  of  those  days  when  she  had 
worked  so  hard  and  so  loyally  at  his  side.  She  felt  again 


432  THE   HONEY   BEE 

the  thrill  of  a  love  that  had  stolen  into  her  young  heart; 
half -recognized  for  what  it  was ;  at  first  vaguely,  then  ad- 
mittedly wrong,  yet  of  a  bewildering  beauty.  She  felt 
again  the  stabs  of  horror  that  had  shocked  her  soul  .  .  » 
the  blind  dark  strugglings  .  .  .  the  things  her  un- 
trained mind  had  thought  about  herself  .  .  .  thoughts, 
thoughts,  thoughts!  ...  the  cutting  herself  free, 
blindly,  desperately  .  .  .  the  difficult  early  days  in  New 
York,  days  of  making  her  way  alone,  of  little  by  little 
hardening  her  heart  .  .  .  then  the  years  of  her  success, 
and  a  sort  of  hard  oblivion  of  the  spirit.  And  that  strange 
evening  on  the  New  York-Chicago  train,  when  he  had 
kissed  her. 

She  thought,  too,  of  the  curious  difficult  days  of  the  pre- 
ceding winter  in  Paris,  and  of  how  Blink  and  the  baby 
had  brought  her  back  to  life  and  to  the  one  man  who  had 
loved  her  more  than  his  work,  more  than  his  family,  more 
than  his  life.  She  could  not  think  of  all  this  in  conven- 
tional terms  now,  she  could  not  think  of  it  as  right  or 
wrong.  She  could  see  it,  at  last,  only  for  what  it  was,  one 
of  the  queer  complex  facts  of  life,  one  of  the  rather  pitiful 
facts  of  life. 

She  was  still  standing  there  in  the  hall. 

She  had  left  his  door  open.  She  went  now  to  close  it. 
Her  fingers  closed  slowly  about  the  cold  metal  knob.  She 
hesitated  and  lingered  there.  Then  on  a  sudden  impulse, 
she  slipped  into  her  own  room,  found  her  scissors,  and 
came  back  to  his  bedside. 

Very  gently,  by  the  faint  light  that  came  in  through  the 
window,  she  cut  a  lock  of  his  hair. 

She  started  to  replace  the  covering,  hesitated,  leaned 
ever  and  kissed  bis  forejiead.  Then  she  covered  the  face 


THE   HONEY   BEE  433 

for  the  last  time,  sank  to  the  floor  beside  the  bed,  and  gave 
way  to  the  sobs  that  came.  She  had  never  given  up  so 
completely. 

And  in  the  completeness  of  the  experience,  in  the  very 
poignancy  of  it,  there  was  a  very  little  relief. 

She  must  have  sat  there  for  half  an  hour  or  longer  be- 
fore getting  up  and  going  to  her  own  room.  She  found  an 
envelope  and  sealed  the  lock  of  hair  in  it,  then  put  it 
away  in  her  wrist-bag. 

She  undressed,  put  on  a  negligee,  and  sat  by  the  window 
until  she  heard  Miss  Nichols  moving  about.  Then  she 
went  to  bed. 

Miss  Nichols  heard  her,  and  brought  a  drink  of  the  bro- 
mide solution.  But  Hilda  would  not  touch  it.  She  could 
not  bear  to  think  of  sleeping. 

Before  eight-thirty  in  the  morning  she  was  gone,  in  a 
taxi,  with  her  bags  and  her  trunk.  Back  to  the  big  hotel 
in  the  Strand  she  went,  where  the  last  of  the  refugees  still 
swarmed,  a  little  stunned  by  the  swiftness  of  the  terrible 
war  that  was  devastating  the  continent  with  such  amaz- 
ing speed,  but  talking,  always  talking,  of  themselves  and 
their  small  troubles,  and  greatly  worried  about  their  bag- 
gage. 

She  moved  silently,  swiftly,  through  the  crowds  in  the 
lobby,  a  youngish,  rather  beautiful  woman,  very  self-pos- 
sessed, with  a  quietly  sad  face.  She  knew  now  why  women 
choose  to  wear  mourning.  If  she  had  dared  permit  her- 
self a  wish  it  would  have  been  for  that — for  the  defense  it 
brings  against  intrusion.  But  it  was  not  permitted  to  her. 

Quickly  she  established  herself  in  a  room,  a  hotel  room 
of  the  sort  she  so  disliked,  opened  the  big  wardrobe  trunk, 
and  set  out  some  of  her  own  things  on  the  bare  bureau. 


434  THE   HONEY   BEE 

Then  she  went  out  again,  by  taxi,  to  the  smaller  hotel 
where  the  Morans  were  stopping.  They  were  at  breakfast, 
and  brought  her  in  with  them. 

She  had  to  tell  them  what  had  taken  place.  It  was  odd 
how  she  accepted  them,  came  to  them,  in  this  sad  time. 
So  sure  was  she  of  them,  indeed,  that  it  ieemed  hardly 
difficult.  She  knew  they  would  not  ask  questions. 

Even  the  announcement  of  the  money  he  had  left  her — 
that  was  already  hers,  in  fact,  by  outright  gift  of  the  living 
man — was  not  too  hard.  She  had  to  tell  them  of  this !  for 
she  had  worked  out  a  plan  in  the  night.  She  stated  it  now. 

"You  see" — she  looked  from  Blink  to  Adele,  and  back 
to  Blink  again — "I  can't  use  this  money  for  myself.  Some 
of  it  can  go  to  the  Belgians,  or  into  one  of  the  English 
funds.  But  those  things  are  not  personal,  exactly — not 
to  me.  I'm  thinking  of — "  she  hesitated.  It  was  a  little 
difficult  now.  There  was  a  sudden  lump  in  her  throat. 

Blink  and  Adele  looked  at  each  other. 

"You  mean  Juliette,"  said  he,  very  thoughtfully. 

Hilda  nodded. 

"God  knows  what's  happening  to  her.  Though  she  must 
have  some  money  left.  Those  girls  are  wonderful,  you 
know.  They  can  live  like  little  mice." 

"Here's  where  I  want  you  two  to  advise— and  help,  per- 
haps," said  Hilda,  "Had  we  better  bring  her  out  of 
France,  or  leave  her  there  ?" 

Blink  thought  this  all  over,  very  deliberately.  Then  he 
said,  "I  should  say  it  all  depends  on  how  far  you  want  to 
go,  Hilda." 

She  threw  out  both  hands.  "Go  through,"  she  said; 
"take  care  of  her." 

"Of  course,  Hilda,  if  there  wasn't  a  war  she  could  work." 

"But  there  is  a  war,  Blink." 


THE    HOtfEY   BEE  435 

"That's  right !"  put  in  Adele. 

"She  might  not  be  so  happy  here  in  England/'  mused 
Blink,  "hut—" 

"She'd  he  happy  anywhere  on  earth  with  the  baby!" 
cried  Adele  softly.  There  was  an  odd  touch  of  radiance 
in  her  eyes,  that  Hilda  did  not  fail  to  note. 

" — but  it's  safer  than  France  right  now." 

"I  think  so,"  said  Hilda. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  Blink  said,  after  one  of  his  deliberate 
efforts  at  thinking,  "if  you'll  look  out  for  Adele,  Hilda,  I'll 
go  over  and  find  her  and  bring  her  back." 

"Thank  you,  Blink,"  replied  Hilda  warmly;  "that  is  just 
what  I  wanted  you  to  Bay." 

"The  channel  ports  aren't  real  safe,  are  they?"  aaked 
Adele. 

"I'll  go  around  by  Bordeaux,"  said  Blink  quietly.  And 
thus  it  was  settled. 

Hilda  went  to  Mr.  Priest's  office  in  the  afternoon,  ex- 
plained the  matter  to  him,  and  drew  for  the  first  time  on 
the  money  that  was  so  strangely  her  own.  The  next  morn- 
ing Blink  left. 

He  was  gone  ten  days,  three  of  which  he  spent  in  Paris, 
hunting  for  some  trace  of  the  mother  and  child.  Two 
days  more  were  spent  in  persuading  her,  in  allaying  her 
fears,  and  in  getting  her  out  of  the  harassed  capital  and 
down  to  Bordeaux.  Meantime  Hilda  made  one  more  move, 
this  time  to  the  other  hotel ;  and  once  more  found  herself 
living  close  to  Adele. 

But  there  had  been  deep  changes  in  the  life  of  each. 
Adele  was  now  a  contented  young  married  woman,  with 
sober  dreams  in  her  eyes.  Hilda  was  quiet,  thoughtful, 
with  more  than  a  hint  of  a  quite  new  sort  of  resignation  in 
her  face.  They  could  talk,  but  not  freely. 


436  THE    HONEY   BEE 

Then  Blink  came  with  his  charges,  sobered  anew  by  the 
later  sorrows  of  the  war.  For  a  day  or  so  Hilda  found  her- 
self torn  by  the  proximity  of  the  baby  that  had  been  so 
close  to  her  and  that  she  had  lost.  It  would  not  do — she 
could  see  that.  And  vague  plans  that  had  been  growing 
and  gradually  relating  themselves  in  her  mind,  now  took 
definite  form. 

One  day  she  informed  Blink  and  Adele  that  she  was  go- 
ing down  into  Devonshire  for  a  rest  of  a  few  weeks  before 
taking  the  ship  for  New  York.  She  had  made  all  arrange- 
ments with  Blink  and  Mr.  Priest  for  the  care  of  Juliette 
and  the  baby.  She  had  him  come  now  to  the  hotel  to  meet 
them  all.  It  was  odd  to  see  him  there,  the  very  formal 
Briton,  balancing  his  cylindrical  hat  on  his  arm,  listening 
stiffly  to  the  tentative  efforts  of  Blink  and  Adele  at  con- 
versation. So,  crusty  but  touched,  he  sipped  his  tea, 
bowed  and  stiffly  went  away. 

Blink  and  Adele  came  to  the  station  to  see  Hilda  off. 
Adele  cried  softly.  And  Blink  was  silent. 

The  train  rolled  away,  through  pleasant  hilly  country- 
sides as  yet  untainted  by  the  actuality  of  war,  leaving  the 
young  married  couple  standing  on  the  platform,  in  a  mo- 
mentary vacuum  of  the  spirit — for  a  strong  interesting 
personality  had  abruptly  passed  on  out  of  their  lives,  a 
personality  stronger  and  more  interesting  than  they  con- 
sciously knew.  For  them  now  there  was  only  that  odd 
sort  of  vacuum,  and  the  silent  ride  back  to  the  hotel,  with 
an  impersonal,  ineffectual  remark  now  and  then. 

Hilda  found  an  inn  at  a  fishing  village  on  the  north 
coast  of  Devon.  The  place  suited  her  needs.  She  must 
be  alone.  She  must  think,  must  grope  in  the  dark  places 
of  life  to  find  herself.  Here  she  could  walk  far  over  the 
moors,  breathing  in  deep  inhalations  of  the  sea  air,  and 


THE  EOKEy;  BEE 

opening  Her  mind,  at  the  same  time,  to  the  thoughts  that 
came.  It  seemed  to  her  at  these  times  that  until  very  re- 
cently she  had  moved  through  life  in  a  spirit  of  evasion, 
as  one  who  hastens  with  averted  face.  It  was  different 
with  her  now.  She  had  changed.  She  found  now  that  she 
could  look  at  life. 

The  only  possessions  of  Doreyn's  that  she  had  permitted 
herself  to  take  were  certain  of  his  books.  In  the  evenings 
she  read  in  these.  And  in  the  novels  of  the  recent  English 
writers,  particularly — men  in  whom  Doreyn  had  taken  great 
interest — there  was  much  of  that  sober  realization  of  life 
that  she  herself  was  growing  into.  These  books  helped 
her  to  mount  that  final  altitude  of  human  experience — 
from  which  she  could  see  something  of  the  problems  and 
the  sufferings  of  others,  could  begin  to  understand,  in  the 
deeper  sense  of  the  word,  that  her  own  most  perplexing, 
bitterest  spiritual  problems  were  in  no  sense  peculiar  to  her- 
self but  were  merely  her  individual  share  of  the  burden  of 
life. 

And  standing,  in  her  spirit,  on  this  altitude,  she  began 
to  perceive  that  the  resentments  and  bitterness  that  had 
heretofore  played  a  vital  part  in  her  day-by-day  life  were 
thinning  and  fading  out,  like  mists  that  had  obstructed  her 
view.  They  would  return,  of  course,  unexpectedly,  and 
assuming  new  forms  in  order  to  mislead  her  as  to  their 
ugly  nature — her  dawning,  very  sober  sense  of  humor  told 
her  that.  But  they  would  at  least  find  that  they  had  to  deal 
with  a  woman  who  was  vitally  different  from  the  woman 
they  had  so  blinded  in  the  past.  During  parts  of  the  time, 
at  least,  she  would  surely  be  able  to  hold  to  something  of 
this  new  vision.  And  that  would  be  a  gain. 

She  read,  too,  in  Doreyn's  little  Testament — propped  up 
in  bed,  an  old-fashioned  lamp  at  her  shoulder — taking  it 


438  THE   HONEY  BEE 

at  random,  a  chapter  here,  another  there.  But  only  as  far 
as  Paul.  Never  beyond  that  point  at  which  Doreyn's  fine 
spirit  had  been  blocked.  And  if  she  found  it  a  little  diffi- 
cult to  perceive  a  complete  application  for  the  Christ  phi- 
losophy in  the  hard  drive  of  business  life,  as  she  knew  it, 
at  least  she  found  there  the  sweetness  that  had  grown  so  in 
him  during  his  later  years.  She  knew  that  he  had  found 
in  it  a  completer  application  than  any  she  could  perceive. 
And  knowing,  as  well,  the  bigness  of  the  man,  she  was 
inclined  to  accept  his  point  of  view;  thinking  that,  since 
she  herself  had  already  changed  so  much,  she  would  very 
likely  change  more  in  this  regard. 

She  knew  now  that  she  was  going  back  to  the  store. 
Her  first  letter  after  she  reached  Devon  was  written  to  Joe 
Hemstead,  telling  him  that  she  was  fully  herself  and  was 
ready  to  take  up  her  work,  and  asking  him  to  cable  her  if 
there  should  be  anything  for  her  to  do  on  this  side  be- 
fore taking  the  steamer.  The  result  was  a  prompt  mes- 
sage from  J.  H.  congratulating  her  on  her  recovery  and 
suggesting  a  few  matters  that  might  be  attended  to  in 
London. 

A  day  or  so  later  further  messages  came  from  Ed  John- 
son and  May  Isbell.  May's  few  words  she  looked  at  for 
several  moments  with  a  slight  bridling  of  resentment; 
but  then  recovered,  and  tossed  the  paper  aside  with  a 
shrug.  After  all,  personal  thought  of  this  sort  was  sheer 
waste.  The  only  real  question  was  whether  May  was  com- 
petent to  do  her  work.  The  cablegram,  with  its  implica- 
tion of  a  sudden  change  of  front,  suggested  that  perhaps 
she  was  not — and  that,  after  all,  was  the  only  possible  con- 
clusion regarding  her  activities  as  a  gossip,  her  evident 
smallness  and  jealous  ambition  and  lack  of  self-control. 
But  the  thing  to  do  was  to  give  her  a  new  chance.  It  was 


THE   HONEY  BEE  439 

possible  that  Hilda  herself,  she  reflected  now,  might  have 
been  partly  responsible  for  May's  failure  to  grow. 

Then  Hilda  thought  about  the  return  to  the  store.  In  a 
hundred  shifting  mental  pictures  she  saw  herself  walk- 
ing in,  on  the  first  day.  She  wondered  whether  it  would  be 
very  difficult.  It  might  not  prove  so,  as  she  felt  nowadays. 
Certainly  she  did  not  find  herself  afraid  of  the  hostility 
she  would  surely  have  to  face. 

There  was  a  little  heap  of  recent  letters  from  her  mother 
lying  unanswered  in  the  top  drawer  of  her  trunk.  More 
and  more  definitely  her  thoughts  turned  to  those  letters 
now.  One  day  she  got  them  out  and  read  them  all  through. 
During  the  uncertainties  preceding  Doreyn's  death  it  had 
been  so  far  from  possible  to  make  any  plans  that  she  had 
been  unable  to  write  at  all.  If  she  had  since  then  fallen 
back  on  the  delays  of  war-time  communications  as  a  tacit 
explanation  of  her  silence,  she  felt  only  a  partial  guilt. 
Deeply  as  she  had  been  coming  to  understand  and  feel  the 
sorrows  in  her  mother's  life,  she  could  not  have  written. 
Life  was  too  much  for  her  just  then.  And  so  she  had  been 
impelled  to  put  that  letter  off  from  day  to  day,  waiting  un- 
til she  could  feel  that  the  time  had  come  when  she  could 
write  it  in  the  spirit  in  which  it  must  be  written. 

Finally,  on  a  still  evening,  she  settled  herself  in  her 
room  to  write  it. 

For  a  long  time  she  sat  quietly,  her  portfolio  in  her  lap, 
gazing,  chin  on  hand,  into  the  fire.  In  a  sober  sort  of  way 
she  was  glad  that  this  moment  had  come  at  last,  and  that 
she  could  say  to  her  mother  the  things  she  had  been  coming 
to  feel  of  late.  There  had  been  a  mellowing.  She  had 
lived  deeply,  but  she  was  not  suffering  as  women  suffer  who 
are  forced  by  the  loss  of  a  husband  to  change  abruptly  from 
the  set  habits  of  a  lifetime.  The  only  real  habits  she  had 


440  THE   HONEY  BEE 

were  working  habits.  These  had  not  been,  snatched  away 
from  her.  She  was  going  back  to  them,  indeed.  The 
change  in  her  was  of  another  nature.  Until  this  year,  she 
had  been,  with  all  her  great  nervous  intensity,  struggling 
with  life,  really  at  war  with  herself.  That  was  what  had 
beaten  her  down.  It  had  begun  more  than  fourteen  years 
earlier  when  the  first  flutterings  of  love  for  Harris  Doreyn 
had  stirred  in  her  heart.  Now,  after  the  years,  that  experi- 
ence had  reached  a  sort  of  completion.  It  was  not  a  frui- 
tion— but  it  was  a  completion.  And  sad  as  it  was,  it 
carried  with  it  a  sense  of  release  from  strain. 

"Mother  dear,"  she  began,  "I  haven't  been  able  to  write 
you.  before.  There  have  been  very  real  reasons.  I  can't 
very  well  write  them  all  out,  even  in  the  rather  long  letter 
that,  I  can  see,  this  one  is  going  to  be.  But  before  long 
now  I  shall  be  back  at  work,  and  soon  after  that  it  will  be 
time  for  Margie's  wedding,  and  I  will  be  with  you  to  help 
in  the  last  preparations  and  to  share  all  the  excitement 
with  you  and  her,  and  then,  after  that,  we  are  going  to 
pack  up  and  come  east — yes,  you  too! — and  find  a  little 
home  somewhere  near  New  York  where  we  can  make  our- 
selves comfortable  against  the  years  to  come.  And  then, 
when  we  are  settled  and  beginning  to  live  our  home  life, 
you  and  I,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  the  whole  story  of  this 
strange  year. 

"It  has  been  a  strange  year,  mother.  No  question  of 
that.  I  have  been  shaken — and  changed.  But  I  am  not 
the  worse  for  it.  When  you  see  me  and  we  can  talk  things 
all  out,  I  think  you  will  feel  as  I  do  about  that.  Of  course, 
as  you  have  surmised — I  haven't  missed  that  touch  of  anx- 
iety in  your  letters — there  have  been  experiences.  Very 
deep  experiences.  There  is  now  a  sorrow  in  my  heart  that  is 
not  made  easier  by  the  fact  that  I  can  not  share  it  with  a 
single  human  being — until  I  see  you.  You  are  the  only 
person  I  have  left  now,  and  I  can  see  that  I  am  not  going 
to  be  secretive  with  you  any  more.  It  isn't  that  I  ever 


THE   HONEY  BEE 

meant  to  be  that,  but  a  girl  is  likely  to  be  bewildered  by  the 
experiences  that  come  to  her  when  she  is  thrown  out  into 
the  world  to  make  her  way.  I'm  not  altogether  sure  that 
she  doesn't  have  to  be  secretive — at  least  until  she  grows 
up,  and  learns  a  little  of  the  struggles  others  have  to  go 
through  with  and — well,  I  rather  imagine  that  phrase 
'until  she  grows  up'  covers  it. 

"Anyway,  I  am  finding  a  very  deep  comfort  now  in  the 
thought  that  we  shall  soon  be  together,  and  that  I  can  bring 
my  troubles  to  you — even  though  in  one  sense  they  are 
troubles  no  longer,  but  just  the  deep,  deep  memories  with 
which  I  shall  be  living  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  That  much 
I  know.  Nothing  will  ever  efface  these  memories.  There 
are  too  many  years  back  of  them,  and  the  climax  of  it  all 
has  come  at  too  mature  a  time  in  my  life.  That  is  why  I 
shall  not  marry.  You  used  to  worry  a  good  deal  about  that, 
mother,  and  wonder  why  I  didn't.  Well,  now  I  know  that 
it  can  not  happen.  There  was  but  one  man,  in  the  last 
analysis,  that  I  could  have  married.  I  have  been  stirred, 
and  torn.  I  have  even  wavered.  But  there  was  really  only 
one.  And  him  I  shall  never  see  again  on  this  earth.  So 
after  this,  at  last  without  the  secretiveness  and  the  rather 
dreadful  restlessness  that  has,  at  one  time  and  another, 
played  havoc  with  my  life,  I'm  going  to  be  just  a  little  bit 
kinder  .and  friendlier  with  my  not-at-all  old  mother  than 
she  is  accustomed  to  finding  me.  Yes,  I  am. 

"And  do  you  know,  it  is  occurring  to  me  that  there  is  a 
lot  ahead  of  us  two.  You  see,  we're  going  to  take  hold  of 
life  on  a  new  basis.  I've  been  a  rather  destructive  person 
— charging  ahead,  looking  out  only  for  myself.  Now 
we're  going  to  be  constructive,  you  and  I.  We'll  build 
up  together — a  home  and  fresh  interests.  One  thing  oc- 
curs to  me,  you  are  right  now  a  good  deal  in  the  condition 
I  was  in  eight  months  ago,  what  in  the  store  we  call  being 
stale.  You  are  just  that,  a  little  stale,  living  on  there  all 
these  years  in  the  old  town,  meeting  the  same  mean  little 
problems  over  and  over  every  day,  three  hundred  and  sixty- 
five  times  a  year.  On  the  whole,  I'm  inclined  to  think  that 
you'll  do  better  to  have  a  little  New  York  life  before  yon 


THE   HONEY  BEE 
\ 

settle  down  again.  We'll  just  take  our  time  about  that. 
First  we'll  stop  somewhere  in  town.  Surely  there  will  be  a 
good  deal  of  shopping  for  you  to  do.  I'll  help  with  that, 
of  course.  And  then  there  will  be  places  and  things  you 
ought  to  see. 

"As  for  Margie,  let's  give  her  a  fine  Godspeed !  I  think 
I  shall. give  her  a  little  money.  Heaven  knows  they  can 
use  it,  those  two !  And  let's  do  all  we  can  to  brace  John  up 
and  make  him  feel  that  we  stand  solidly  behind  the  match. 
That  will  be  the  best  thing  we  can  do  for  them,  surely. 
Yes,  I  still  have  that  piece  of  green  silk  in  my  trunk,  and 
will  bring  it  along  in  time  to  have  it  made  up.  You  see,  I 
shall  be  in  New  York  within  a  week  or  ten  days  after  this 
letter  reaches  you,  so  there  is  time  enough." 

It  occurred  to  her  here  that  her  mother  would  be  worry- 
ing in  regard  to  the  ocean  crossing;  and  so  she  wrote  at 
some  length  about  this,  explaining  that  the  English  navy 
held  complete  command  of  the  North  Atlantic  and  that 
passenger  ships  were  moving  back  and  forth  almost  as 
regularly  as  if  there  were  no  war. 

From  this  she  went  on  to  speak  of  London  in  war-timo 
s— of  the  evidences  of  military  preparation,  the  movementf' 
of  the  tourist  refugees,  and  the  contradictory  rumors  fly 
ing  here  and  there.  In  conclusion,  she  told  of  this  quaint 
old  tavern  in  its  quiet  village  on  the  north  coast  of  Devon. 

"It  is  night-time  now,  mother,  and  I  am  sitting  in  my 
room  on  the  second  floor.  It  is  rather  damp  and  raw  out- 
side,  but  in  here,  by  my  funny,  narrow  little  fireplace  with 
its  glowing  coals,  it  is  snug  and  warm.  The  bed  is  at  least 
two  hundred  years  old,  a  four-poster,  mahogany,  of  course, 
and  perfectly  enormous.  It  is  the  widest  bed  I  ever  saw 
in  my  life.  The  posts  support  a  regular  roof,  and  there  are 
heavy  curtains — very  old  stuff.  The  mantel,  the  table,  and 
even  the  walls  are  covered  with  Victorian  bric-a-brac.  Over 
the  mantel  is  a  steel  engraving  of  the  Stag  at  Eve.  And 


THE   HONEY  BEE  '443 

while  the  room  is  scrupulously  clean,  it  all  smells  old — you 
know — just  because  it  is  old. 

"During  the  nearly  two  weeks  I  have  been  here  I  hava 
come  to  love  the  place.  It  has  seemed  to  be  what  I  needed, 
perhaps  because,  more  than  anything  else,  it  suggests  peace. 
And  peace,  some  kind  of  peace,  is  the  only  thing  in  the 
world  I  crave  now,  mother  mine.  I  have  been  sadly  storm- 
tossed.  I've  been  racked  and  wrung  with  it.  Now  I  want 
peace.  And  from  now  on,  you  and  I  together  are  to  find  as 
much  of  it  as,  God  helping  us,  we  can." 

So  she  ended  her  letter. 


XXXI 

IN  WHICH  HILDA  OPENS  A  DOOR  ON  FATE 

IT  was  a  morning  in  early  November — a  bright  crisp 
morning.  The  great  plate-glass  windows  of  the  Hart- 
man  store  blazed  with  rich  autumn  tints  displayed  against 
backgrounds  of  Circassian  walnut.  Women,  out  for  an 
early  choice  of  bargains,  moved  from  window  to  window, 
thoughtfully  studying  the  thousand  and  one  articles  of 
wear  and  furnishing  set  out  before  their  eyes  with  enticing 
skill. 

A  few  feet  from  them,  along  the  wide  sidewalk,  flowed 
the  opposing  streams  of  pedestrians  that  would  increase  to 
torrents  at  noon  and  early  afternoon  and  that  would  not 
slacken  until  night  had  fallen  on  the  great  city  and  di- 
verted them  to  those  other  and  more  brightly  lighted  streets 
of  the  theater  and  restaurant  district. 

Hilda  Wilson,  walking  briskly  over  from  the  subway 
station,  paused  at  the  corner  and  looked.  It  was  nearly  a 
year  since  she  had  seen  it.  She  was  conscious  of  a  momen- 
tary sense  of  vague  surprise  that  it  should  all  be  going  on 
just  as  she  had  left  it  so  long  ago.  The  women  were 
smarter  than  ever,  with  their  furs,  their  dogs,  their  rather 
bizarre  skirts  of  the  late  1914  mode.  Already  the  avenue 
was  crowded  with  motors,  buses  and  business  traffic. 

At  the  curb,  in  front  of  the  main  entrance  to  the  Hart- 
444 


THE   HONEY  BEE  445 

man  store,  stood  the  erect,  liveried  carriage  man — the  same 
xnan,  she  thought  at  first,  as  had  stood  there  every  day, 
tain  or  shine,  for  years ;  but  on  second  glance  she  saw  that 
it  was  a  new  man,  who  stood,  or  moved,  or  opened  limousine 
doors  precisely  as  his  predecessor  had  always  dor  •*.  That 
ether  man  had  had  a  snub  nose  and  round  chin,  she  re- 
called ;  the  present  one  had  a  straight  nose  and  square  chin. 
...  So  the  great  machine  that  was  the  store  ran  always 
smoothly  on.  Not  a  human  there  but  was  one  of  three 
thousand  replaceable  units.  No  one  was  essential,  not 
even  Mr.  Hartman,  not  even  J.  H.  himself,  who  had 
always  seemed  the  real  driving  power  to  those  under  his 
direct  command.  Old  faces  might  disappear,  new  faces 
might  come ;  the  store  would  be  the  same. 

So  thought  Hilda,  as  she  made  her  way  across  the  side- 
walk to  glance  in  at  the  nearest  show  window.  For  her 
thoughts  had  been  vagrant  indeed  as  she  was  riding  down- 
town in  the  close  crowded  subway,  and,  later, -walking  over 
toward  the  store.  Her  nerves  were  strung  surprisingly 
high.  She  was  not  conscious  of  anything  like  fear,  or  even 
hesitation,  as  she  approached  the  building  where  her  name 
nad  been  made,  and  then,  in  a  sense,  lost.  It  was  simply 
that  her  nerves  were  playing  perverse  little  tricks  on  her 
mind.  .  .  .  She  had  been  dwelling,  at  moments,  on 
the  plan,  now  settled,  for  bringing  her  mother  east  and 
making  a  home  for  her.  That  plan  had  been  conceived  in 
a  glow  of  warm  emotions.  Since  then,  during  many  long 
hours  of  pondering,  she  had  come  to  think  of  it  for  the 
task,  the  job,  it  was  certainly  going  to  be.  There  would 
be  difficulties,  little  rubs.  But  she  saw,  too,  that  it  would 
be  a  fine  sort  of  job.  It  would  put  her  to  the  test  in  a 
thousand  ways.  The  thing  to  do,  she  thought  now,  was  to 
foresee  as  many  as  possible  of  the  little  difficulties  that 


446  THE  HOHEY  BEE 

would  be  certain  to  arise,  and  never  permit  them  to  sur- 
prise her.  And  she  was  inclined  to  believe  that  she  could 
manage  to  be  kind. 

She  moved  along  toward  the  entrance,  thoughtfully 
studying  each  window  display  as  she  passed.  Everything 
looked  all  right,  or  very  nearly  all  right.  Her  practised 
eye  detected  a  slight  something  missing  here  and  there,  a 
lack  of  quality  in  the  lines  of  the  gowns  and  frocks  that 
had  been  fitted  to  the  waxen  manikins.  Yes,  they  had 
the  domestic  air,  most  of  them.  The  curious  French  ge- 
nius for  color  was  missing,  in  particular.  And  yet,  every- 
thing considered,  they  were  surprisingly  good.  And  she 
reflected,  as  she  moved  in  through  the  wide  double  doors, 
on  the  baffling  problems  that  J.  H.  and  his  staff  had  had 
to  solve  in  meeting  the  autumn  demand  with  nearly  the 
entire  European  supply  cut  off  overnight. 

She  found  herself  within  the  portals,  and  on  the  instant 
the  smooth  atmosphere  of  the  great,  almost  silent  machine 
descended  oa  her  and  enveloped  her  spirit,  just  as  it  was 
designed  to  envelop  the  spirit  of  every  vagrant  shopper 
that  might  set  foot  over  the  threshold.  The  indirect  light- 
ing, spreading  softly  from  the  creamy  white  ceiling,  was 
soothing  to  eyes  and  nerves.  The  ten  long  aisles,  set  off 
behind  glass  and  mahogany  counters  and  six-foot  stock 
cabinets,  were  all  quietly  ablaze  with  the  color  of  ribbons, 
scarfs,  hosiery  and  a  thousand  dainty  articles  of  wear  and 
adornment,  with  the  sparkle  of  jewelry,  with  the  impressive 
appeal,  farther  to  the  rear,  of  a  quarter-acre  of  books  piled 
in  symmetrical  heaps  upon  dozens  of  wide  tables.  Off  to 
the  right,  where  they  had  always  been,  were  the  huge  piles 
of  trunks  and  bags,  with  a  front  display  of  glittering, 
silver-mounted  travel  articles.  In  the  corner,  on  the  left, 
was  the  men's  furnishing  department,  where*  special  sales 


THE   HOKEY  BEE 

were  prepared  on  the  aisle  tables.  Behind  all  the  counters 
stood  or  moved  quietly  the  neatly  dressed  sales  girls,  each 
trained  under  the  rigid  but  not  inhuman  system  of  Joe 
Hemstead,  each  ready  on  the  instant  to  smile  and  speak  if 
a  prospective  customer  should  so  much  as  pause.  All  of 
this  was  the  more  evident  to  the  eye  as  the  crowds  that, 
later  in  the  morning,  would  swarm  and  jostle  in  every  one 
of  these  wide  aisles  was  at  present  but  a  thin  promise  of 
what  was  to  come. 

And  above  all  this,  one  vast  story  on  another,  similar 
scenes,  she  knew,  would  open  to  her  eyes  as  the  elevator 
carried  her  up  to  that  scene  of  her  own  battles  and  growth, 
the  fifth  floor.  She  thought  of  her  own  little  office,  in  the 
corner  behind  the  high  stock  cabinets  where  the  women's 
suits  were  hung  on  the  sliding  frames.  May  Isbell  had, 
of  course,  been  using  her  office.  But  May  would  be  out 
now.  Perhaps  there  would  be  flowers.  Always,  in  the 
past,  when  she  had  returned  from  Paris,  there  had  been 
flowers,  at  least  from  the  girls  in  her  own  department. 
She  wondered  how  it  would  be  to-day. 

She  met  Mr.  Andrews,  of  the  jewelry  department.  He 
stopped,  looked  distinctly  embarrassed,  even  flushed  a  little, 
and  then,  as  if  on  second  thought,  extended  his  hand. 

And  Hilda,  as  she  took  it,  felt  her  heart  sinking.  Here 
was  her  first  encounter  in  the  store,  and  it  was  not  encour- 
aging. Even  Andrews,  down  here  on  the  main  floor,  had 
heard  the  stories.  She  could  see  it.  ...  She  knew 
now  that  this  meeting  was  but  the  first  skirmish  in  what 
was  destined  to  be  a  long  series  of  battles — and,  worse,  of 
secret  attacks,  of  the  subtle  work  of  hostile  sappers  and 
miners,  that  she  would  never  be  able  to  find  and  meet 
squarely. 

They  spoke  of  her  absence,  of  the  war,  and  of  the  new 


448  THE   HONEY  BEE 

merchandising  problems;  then  she  moved  on  toward  the 
elevator. 

She  wondered  how  it  would  be  up-stairs.  J.  H.  had 
dropped  never  a  hint.  But  then,  he  was  not  given  to  drop- 
ping hints.  He  assumed  energy,  soundness,  growth,  always. 
Nothing  else  interested  him  very  much.  He  had  simply 
welcomed  her  back,  by  cable  and  letter.  That  was  all,  so 
far.  Later  on,  at  some  time  in  this  day,  she  would  be  ex- 
pected to  go  up  to  his  office  and  have  her  little  talk  with 
him.  It  would  be  outwardly,  a  most  casual  meeting,  dashed 
with  friendliness.  But  she  would  be  on  trial.  She  knew 
it.  His  quiet,  rather  cold  eyes  would  take  her  in,  com- 
pletely. His  orderly  mind  would  receive  certain  impres- 
sions of  her,  weigh  them  and  carefully  file  them  away. 
There  would  be  not  the  slightest  use  in  any  efforts  at  mak- 
ing a  showing.  Those  eyes  would  strip  the  self-conscious 
front  away  and  see  her,  quite  simply,  for  whatever  she 
might  be.  ...  But  he  would  be  just.  Never  in  her 
busy  life  had  she  known  a  juster  man.  No  gossip  could 
touch  or  sway  him.  On  the  other  hand,  not  the  slightest 
evidence  either  of  growth  or  of  deterioration  could  escape 
him. 

There  was  a  steadying  sort  of  comfort  in  this  thought,  a 
half-formulated  but  instinctive  feeling  that  of  real  justice 
she  had  no  fear.  She  had  nothing  whatever  to  hide  from 
eyes  that  could  see  reality.  Her  fight  lay  with  unreality, 
with  hypocrisy,  with  the  shallow,  bitter  little  souls  that 
muddle  ambition,  jealousy,  suspicion  and  evil-mindedness 
together  and  call  the  result  morality. 

And  dwelling  swiftly,  a  little  vaguely,  but  very  deeply, 
on  these  thoughts  and  emotions,  she  found  herself  settling 
on  something  solid.  She  knew  that  she  was  ready  to  meet 


THE   HONEY  BEE  440 

the  world — quietly  reacty,  even  sadly^-and  without  de- 
fiance, without  bitterness.  She  was  thinking  of  Doreyn, 
how  he  had  lived,  suffered  and  died — a  puzzled  man,  a  tor- 
tured man,  in  certain  respects  what  the  world  calls  wrong, 
yet  sweet  and  sound  to  the  last.  She  thought,  too,  of 
Blink,  and  of  the  finely  simple,  natural  way  in  which  his 
strong  unimaginative  spirit  met  life  just  as  it  might  hap- 
pen to  come.  Yes,  she  owed  Blink  something,  too.  She 
even  thought  of  his  big  fight — how  he  had  faced  that.  It 
had  been  perplexingly  rough,  that  fight,  but  it  had  carried 
lessons  of  a  sort.  After  all,  what  was  life  but  just  a  fight ! 
What  was  moral  strength  but  the  spiritual  muscle  one 
developed  in  the  struggle !  What  was  faith  but  a  stored-up 
memory  of  past  victories !  .  .  .  She  was  ready ! 

It  came  to  her,  suddenly,  as  the  elevator  door  closed 
eoftly  behind  her  and  the  car  moved  on  toward  the  several 
stories  above,  as  she  found  herself  facing  the  spacious  fifth 
floor,  her  own  floor,  and  bowing  pleasantly  to  two  girls  that 
passed — it  came  to  her  then  that  she  was  a  fortunate 
woman  to  have  known  big  men.  Blink  was  big,  in  his 
way.  Doreyn  was  big.  And  another  big  man  was  by  now 
up-stairs,  in  a  mahogany-paneled  office  on  the  eighth  floor. 
J.  H.  would  never  play  a  personal  part  in  her  life,  of 
course;  yet  she  owed  him  a  great  deal  too.  "Yes,"  she 
thought,  "it  has  been  a  privilege — to  know  big  men." 

Then  she  found  herself  facing  a  little  rush  of  people — 
women,  girls  and  a  few  men.  Mr.  Hedges,  of  the  shoe 
department,  happened  to  be  there,  and  greeted  her  pleas- 
antly enough.  The  rush  was  quiet,  and  was  over  in  a 
moment,  for  the  first  morning  customers  were  moving  about 
the  floor. 

May  Isbell  did  not  appear  until  a  little  later.    She  man- 


450  THE   EOKEY   BEE 

aged  a  rather  timid  cordiality,  and  was  unmistakably  re- 
lieved by  Hilda's  sober  friendliness  of  manner.  She  had 
moved  all  her  things  out  of  Hilda's  room,  she  said. 

Then  Hilda  found  herself  in  that  room.  It  was  really 
little  more  than  a  cubby-hole.  Two  of  its  walls  were  the 
backs  of  the  stock  cabinets.  But  it  was  now  a  gay  little 
place,  for  the  narrow  flat-top  desk  was  covered  with  flowers. 

She  put  aside  her  gloves,  coat  and  hat,  and  dropped  into 
the  chair  before  the  desk.  She  could  see  the  corners  of 
cards  projecting  here  and  there  from  the  several  open 
bouquets  that  lay  on  the  two  large  boxes. 

The  big  bunch  of  crimson  carnations  was  frortt  the  sales 
girls.  The  other  smaller  bouquets  were  from  individuals 
in  the  department — all  bearing  the  curious  suggestion  of 
peace-offerings.  She  opened  the  two  boxes.  May  Isbell's 
card  lay  on  the  violets.  The  other  was  a  long  box,  obviously 
containing  American  beauties.  When  she  opened  it,  she 
was  surprised  and  pleased  to  find  a  penciled  note  from  Ed 
Johnson. 

"Good  luck,  Hilda!"  he  wrote.  "You'll  win!  Don't 
forget  I'm  with  you.  And  J.  H.  is  solid.  And  you'll  find 
there's  a  good  many  more  that  are  for  you,  like  he  and  I." 

She  sat  very  still  for  a  moment,  studying  this  note,  and 
turning  it  over  and  over.  Then  she  tore  it  slowly  into 
small  bits,  and  dropped  them  into  the  waste  paper  basket. 

The  flowers  she  set  at  the  back  of  her  desk  and  on  both 
sides.  She  had  one  old  glass  vase  here  in  the  room  some- 
where. At  least,  there  used  to  be  one.  And  two  or  three 
of  the  other  women  had  vases  that  she  could  borrow.  She 
decided  to  attend  to  this  a  little  later,  after  she  had  com- 
municated with  Joe  Hemstead. 

She  called  him  up  now.    He  was  in  a  conference,  it  ap- 


THE   HONEY  BEE  451 

peared;  but  Miss  Pemberton,  his  secretary,  looked  over  his 
engagements  and  said  that  she  could  see  him  at  twenty 
minutes  past  eleven. 

She  thought  over  this  coming  talk,  in  the  intervals  of 
chatting  with  the  many  who  dropped  in  to  see  her.  One 
thing  she  had  determined  upon  during  the  last  fortnight 
of  steady  thinking — she  was  going  to  tell  J.  H.  her  story, 
about  Blink  and  the  baby,  and  particularly  about  Doreyn. 
He  had  heard  the  gossip;  she  would  give  him  the  truth. 
Probably  there  would  not  be  time  to  do  this  to-day,  but 
she  would  certainly  let  him  know  that  she  wished  to  talk 
it  out  with  him.  And  then,  perhaps  later  on  in  the  week, 
he  would  set  aside  a  little  real  time  for  her.  She  knew 
that  he  would  do  that. 

Her  watch  ticked  around  to  eleven-fifteen.  It  was  time 
to  go ;  for  one  naturally  anticipated  by  a  minute  or  two  an 
appointment  with  J.  H. 

She  pushed  her  chair  back,  and  rose.  Then  she  saw  that 
a  single  flower,  a  large  chrysanthemum,  had  fallen  to  the 
floor  on  the  inner  side  of  the  desk,  beneath  the  window. 
She  picked  it  up.  Pinned  to  it  was  a  small  envelope,  sealed 
as  Ed's  had  been. 

She  opened  it.  "Within  was  a  card  of  a  sort  that  Hilda 
had  not  seen  since  she  was  a  child — a  hand-written  card, 
with  Spencerian  shadings  and  hair-line  flourishes,  folded 
within  a  soft  pasteboard  cover,  like  a  photograph.  The 
name  was,  "Miss  Annie  M.  Haggerty." 

Hilda  stared  at  it,  and  pursed  her  lips.  Then  ehe  laid 
the  chrysanthemum  with  the  other  flowers,  dropped  the 
card  into  the  top  drawer  of  the  desk,  and  hurried  over  to 
the  elevators. 

Miss  Pemberton,  seated  outside  the  mahogany  door, 
greeted  her  pleasantly.  It  occurred  to  Hilda  that  the  girl 


452  THE   HONEY  BEE 

had  grown  a  little  older  during  the  year.  Her  face,  in 
repose,  was  distinctly  sadder  than  it  had  been.  Life  had 
been  moving  on,  then,  with  others  as  well  as  with  herself. 
She  recalled  an  old  remark  of  Ed's,  "There  is  a  story  be- 
hind every  face  in  the  store." 

This  was  a  truism,  of  course.  She  had  made  similar 
remarks  herself,  when  talking  to  outsiders  of  the  vast  hu- 
man drama  that  goes  on  unceasingly  within  the  four  walls 
of  a  big  department  store.  But  in  those  days  she  had  taken 
the  thought  rather  lightly,  and  always  impersonally.  It 
had  meant  little  more  to  her  than  a  picturesque  fact.  Now 
she  found  herself  wondering  what  could  be  the  story  be- 
hind Miss  Pemberton's  face.  And  for  the  first  time  it 
occurred  to  her  that  there  was  a  story  behind  her  own  face, 
that  she  herself,  Hilda  Wilson,  after  all,  was  not  a  person 
of  peculiar  intense  importance  in  this  world,  but  just  a 
rather  well-trained  woman  who  worked  in  a  store — "suc- 
cessful," to  be  sure,  a  department  head,  with  a  good  salary 
and  a  liberal  expense  account — who  was  in  no  essential 
different  from  other  women  in  stores,  and  who,  just  like 
the  others,  bore  hints  in  her  face  of  the  human  story  that 
lay  behind  the  mask. 

A  buzzer  sounded.    Miss  Pemberton  smiled  and  nodded. 

Hilda  opened  the  door,  and  stepped  forward  to  meet 
what  was  to  be  as  surely  and  definitely  her  fate  as  if  it  had 
been  the  noisy  climax  of  a  great  swirling  drama  of  char- 
acter and  destiny  instead  of  a  quiet  meeting  between  a 
woman  who  was  very  well  gowned  and  was  still  reasonably 
young  and  more  than  reasonably  good-looking,  and  a  man 
of  little  more  than  forty  who  wore  excellent  clothes  and  a 
close-clipped  mustache  and  looked  steadily  at  you  through 
nose-glasses  out  of  large  gray  eyes. 


THE   HONEY  BEE  £53 

Mr.  Hemstead  rose,  and  met  her  with  a  solid  grip  of  the 
hand;  then  nodded  toward  a  chair. 

As  she  seated  herself,  her  eyes  swiftly  took  in  familiar 
details  about  the  room.  The  wide  flat  desk,  with  its  glass 
top,  had  nothing  whatever  on  it  excepting  two  small  heaps 
of  correspondence,  each  in  neat  alignment  and  held  down 
by  a  paper  weight,  an  inkwell  with  pen  and  pencil,  and  a 
desk  clock.  Absolutely  nothing  else;  just  a  six-f oot-by- ( 
four  surface  of  plate  glass  on  mahogany.  And  the  long 
table  at  his  back  was  equally  clear,  bearing  only  a  proof 
sheet  of  the  day's  general  advertisement.  She  had  never 
in  her  life  known  a  man  who  could  accomplish  so  much 
work  in  a  day  with  so  little  outward  evidence  of  it.  His 
office  had  always  looked  like  this.  She  found  a  sudden 
stimulus  in  the  thought  that  it  always  would  look  like  this. 
And  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  must  straighten  out  her 
own  little  cubby-hole  before  lunch.  She  would  pick  up 
those  extra  vases  on  her  way  down-stairs. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  back,"  he  said,  speaking  imper- 
sonally, but  with  that  familiar  direct  look. 

"On  the  whole/'  she  replied,  gravely,  "I'm  glad  to  be 
here.  From  the  little  signs  here  and  there  I  take  it  there 
is  plenty  of  work  to  be  done." 

"Plenty.  Though  it  isn't  so  bad  now.  "We  have  had  to 
tackle  a  lot  of  brand-new  problems.  .  .  .  Tell  me — did 
you  have  any  difficulties  in  the  war  zone  ?" 

She  shook  her  head.  Then,  quite  unexpectedly,  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  and  she  had  to  turn  her  head  and  stare 
out  the  window  for  a  moment. 

But  she  was  not  ashamed  of  the  tears.    She  faced  him. 

"You  probably  see  that  I'm  net  on  the  ailing  list  any 
more/'  she  began. 


"I  never  saw  you  look  so  well,"  said  he,  deliberately. 

"I  never  in  my  life  have  been  so  well.  It  wasn't  just  my 
health  that  was  the  trouble." 

"I  know  it,"  said  he,  quietly  studying  her. 

"It  was  restlessness,  and  other  things.  There  was  a  prob- 
lem in  my  life  that  hadn't  worked  out.  I  can  see  that  now. 
It  had  to  work  out." 

"Well — I  judge  that  something  of  that  sort  has  hap- 
pened." 

"Yes.  It  has  worked  out.  I'm  ready  to  go  on  now  and 
try  to  make  a  good  job  of  it.  But  first"— she  leaned  for- 
ward on  the  table ;  she  was  not  aware  of  the  directness  and 
determination  in  her  eyes,  nor  of  the  steadiness  with  which 
they  were  iked  on  him — "first,  I  wonder  if  you  would  let 
me  tell  you  the  whole  story — I  mean  of  what  has  happened 
to  me  this  year." 

"It  isn't  necessary,"  said  he.  ."It  is  plain  enough  that 
you  haven't  been  going  backward." 

"Xo,  I  haven't  gone  backward." 

"Whatever  has  happened,  you  are  a  bigger  woman  for 
it.  Of  course,  you  know  that  yourself." 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  At  least,  I  hope  so.  But  I  know  some- 
thing of  the  talk  that  has  been  going  on — " 

He  brushed  this  aside  with  an  impatient  gesture. 

"• — and  I  shall  feel  more  comfortable,  settling  down  to 
work,  if  you  know  the  truth." 

"All  right,"  he  said  then.  "I'll  look  over  my  engage- 
ments, and  make  an  appointment  with  you.  It  will  prob- 
ably be  sometime  late  this  week  or  early  next.  For  that 
matter,  you'll  have  your  hands  full  this  week." 

"Thank  you,"  she  replied ;  and  rose.  "Is  Mrs.  Hemstead 
well?" 

"Fine,  thanks." 


THE   HONEY  BEE  455 

"And  the  boys?" 

"Great.  They're  off  on  their  first  camping  trip."  And 
drawing  a  letter  from  his  pocket  he  shook  out  a  few  snap- 
shots. 

"They're  growing  up,"  said  she,  studying  the  photo- 
graphs. 

"Yes,  they're  growing  up.    Like  the  rest  of  us." 

A  moment  more,  and  she  was  gone,  walking  out  past 
Miss  Pemberton  and  the  two  young  men  within  the  outer 
railing,  conscious  of  a  quiet  sense  of  complete  victory. 
He  had  said  it,  with  his  usual  directness  and  complete- 
ness—  She  had  not  "gone  backward."  And  it  was  true. 

But  the  victory,  oddly,  brought  no  elation.  Never  in  her 
life  had  he  met  her  so  frankly  as  an  equal.  And  of  course 
it  was  the  first  sight  of  her,  as  she  was,  that  had  made  him 
meet  her  in  this  spirit.  You  always  got  from  J.  H.  just 
about  what  you  deserved,  and,  in  the  vernacular,  you  got 
it  quick.  Yet,  she  felt  sobered,  and  more  than  a  little 
humble. 

She  walked  slowly  past  the  long  row  of  offices,  rounded 
the  corner  of  the  partition,  and  found  herself  flatly  con- 
fronting Stanley  Aitcheson,  who  was  rushing  along  with  a 
bundle  of  proofs  in  his  hand. 

He  stood  stock-still,  and  stared  at  her.  Then,  very 
slowly,  the  rich  color  surged  upward  from  the  region  of 
his  collar,  spread  over  cheeks,  temple  and  forehead,  clear 
up  into  the  roots  of  his  hair. 

She  extended  her  hand.    He  took  it. 

"When — when  did  you  get  back  ?"  he  said. 

"Last  night.    How  are  you,  Stanley?" 

"Oh — very  well.  How  are  you  ?"  His  eyes  were  taking 
her  in.  He  was  puzzled,  as  well  as  surprised, 

"I'm  first-rate.  They  tell  me  you're  to  be  congratulated." 


456  THE   HONEY   BEE 

"Why — why — yes,  I  am." 

"Well,  Stanley,  I  do  congratulate  you.  You  know  I  had 
a  glimpse  of  Miss  Macy,  just  a  glimpse,  at  the  Cafe  de  la 
Paix — the  day  we  had  tea  there." 

"That's  right,"  said  he.    "That's  righi>-you  did!" 

"And  I  liked  her  looks — and  her  mother's.    I  hope  you 
will  be  happy.    Now  that  I  have  at  last  come  to  see  that 
there  can  be  no  marriage  in  my  own  life,  I  seem  to  want  it  ( 
all  the  more  for  my  friends." 

"Oh,  come!"  said  he.  "Oh,  come,  come!  You'll  find 
the  fellow  one  of  these  fine  days !" 

"No,  Stanley." 

She  smiled,  rather  sadly,  and  slowly  shook  her  head. 
With  a  word  or  two  more,  she  left  him. 

She  was  hoping  strongly  to  get  her  work  started,  but 
found  it  impossible.  People  kept  dropping  in  to  see  her. 
And  the  telephone  kept  ringing.  She  recalled,  by  mid- 
afternoon,  that  it  never  had  been  possible  to  do  any  real 
work  on  the  first  day  after  returning  from  abroad. 

At  four  o'clock  she  met  J.  H.  out  by  the  elevators.  He 
paused,  as  if  his  particular  memories  of  this  floor  had 
been  stirred  by  his  own  presence  here  and  by  the  sudden 
sight  of  her. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  "there  is  a  girl  in  your  depart- 
ment that  we  have  had  to  talk  over  several  times.  Her 
name  is  Annie  Haggerty.  I  believe  you  regarded  her  a  de- 
moralizing influence.  I  asked  Martin  to  keep  her  on  until 
you  came  back.  If  you  don't  want  to  keep  her — " 

"I  do  want  to  keep  her,"  said  Hilda,  with  a  trace  of 
inner  warmth  in  her  voice. 

"All  right,"  said  he.  "Just  tell  Martin."  And  he 
walked  on. 

After  this  until  after  half  past  five  Hilda  sat  in  her 


THE   HONEY  BEE  457 

office,  dictating  replies  to  the  letters  of  greeting  that  had 
been  coming  in  and  chatting  with  Ed  Johnson. 

Then,  finally,  the  last  letter  written  and  the  last  words 
said,  she  got  up  and  walked  out  for  the  first  close  scrutiny 
of  her  department.  The  flocks  of  customers  had  thinned 
out  now,  and  it  was  a  good  time  to  walk  from  one  side  of 
the  floor  to  the  other,  noting  the  arrangement  and  display 
of  the  merchandise,  and  superficially  studying  the  stock. 
In  the  morning,  then,  she  would  be  better  prepared  to 
start  in  earnest  at  her  job. 

She  wished  it  was  morning  now.  She  rather  dreaded  the 
evening  and  the  night.  She  could  not  quite  overcome  the 
feeling  of  strangeness,  a  sort  of  bewilderment  of  the  spirit, 
that  had  been  stirring  within  her  all  day,  even  when,  she 
knew,  she  was  appearing  most  calm  to  the  persons  about 
her.  Ed,  indeed,  had  gazed  at  her  in  frank  wonderment. 

"I  don't  know  what  you've  done  to  yourself,  Hilda,"  he 
had  confided,  in  her  office,  first  glancing  around  for  pos- 
sible eavesdroppers,  "but  between  you  and  I  you  look  just 
great !  I  never  saw  you  so  fit !" 

She  had  only  smiled  at  this — rather  sadly,  just  as  she 
had  smiled  at  Stanley. 

ISTow  she  walked  slowly  through  the  wide  aisle  nearest 
the  front  windows,  between  the  high  cabinets  that  were  full 
of  women's  suits.  She  planned  to  take  each  aisle  in  turn, 
walking  back  and  forth  across  the  building  until  she  should 
have  covered  them  all. 

She  felt  some  one  plucking  at  her  elbow,  and  turned. 

A  tired-looking  woman  stood  there,  convoying  an  awk- 
ward girl  of  what  is  known  in  England  as  the  flapper  age. 

"Tell  me,"  said  the  woman  sharply,  "where  are  the 
misses'  waists  ?" 

Hilda  hesitated  onlv  a  fraction  of  a  second.    She  knew 


458  THE   HONEY  BEE 

well  enough  where  the  "misses'  waists"  had  always  been 
kept,  and  from  the  appearance  of  so  much  of  the  present 
arrangement  of  the  department  as  she  had  observed  she 
thought  they  must  still  be  there.  Anyway,  it  was  part  of 
the  discipline  of  the  store  that  all  questions  must  be  an- 
swered instantly  as  well  as  with  courtesy. 

She  took  a  chance. 

"Three  aisles  to  the  left — rear  of  the  store,"  she  said. 

The  woman  moved  off  in  the  direction  indicated,  drag- 
ging the  flapper  after  her. 

Hilda  turned  back  to  her  slow  walk.  It  was  odd,  per- 
haps, but  this  one  small  episode,  or  her  own  instinctive 
part  in  it,  gave  her  her  first  sense  of  belonging  in  the  store. 
It  was  as  if  the  old  harness  had  all  at  once  begun  to  settle 
about  her  shoulders,  and  as  if  the  thorough  training  and 
the  deep-seated  habits  developed  through  those  fourteen 
years  of  .driving  work  were  at  the  same  moment  rousing 
her  to  pull  and  tug  at  the  old  load. 

And  working  up  through  the  sorrow  that  was  now  and 
was  always  to  be  a  deep  note  in  the  harmony  of  her  life, 
she  became  conscious  of  a  sort  of  relief. 


THE  END 


A     000124906     9 


